by Anna Elliott
“Who?”
“The victim in a case Holmes is working on. He is from the same area as we’re going to. Holmes gave me this file early this morning, just in case we might spot something that he missed.”
I didn’t—of course—have the autopsy photos to show Becky, but I had Inspector Swafford’s notes on his recent investigations, and a file on his history of service with the London police force.
The file fell open to a photograph of the inspector taken in the earliest days of his enrolment on the force, before he had risen in the ranks: a gaunt face, scowling out at the camera from under the brim of a beat constable’s helmet.
Usually, giving Becky even the slightest hint of a mystery was like offering a kitten a pile of yarn. But now she only glanced at the photograph, then shook her head.
“We’re not really going to find anything that Mr. Holmes missed. You’re only saying that to try to cheer me up.”
With a lurch and a fresh blast of the whistle, the train began to chug out of the station, gathering speed as it rolled down the tracks.
Becky lifted her head, watching out the window as the gray, smoke-stained bricks of London buildings rolled past.
“This doesn’t seem very hard.” Her voice was so low that I could barely hear it above the noise of the train’s engines. “Buying a ticket and traveling by train out of London. My father could do it, too, couldn’t he?”
“He could,” I said. “But it’s not very likely that he will. He wouldn’t know where to find us, for one thing.” I gestured to the busy, noisy station outside. “You can see for yourself. Hundreds of trains depart from here every day. And that’s just from King’s Cross. There’s also Victoria Station and Charing Cross …”
I stopped, studying Becky’s expression. “Unless … do you want to see him?”
It occurred to me that Jack and I hadn’t asked Becky that yet.
“Jack would understand if you did want to,” I told Becky gently. “He is your father, after all—”
“No!” The word burst out of Becky almost violently, and she shook her head. “I was only five when he was sent to prison. My mum held on for another two years in our house, hoping he’d get out again—until she got sick and then the money ran out.” Becky clasped her hands tightly together, her head bent, and her face shadowed by the brim of her blue velvet hat. “But I remember how he was angry all the time—always growling at me to keep quiet and not pester him or get in his way. And he shouted at me once for going into his private office when he wasn’t there. I remember how he and my mum would fight. I’d hear them screaming at each other, after they thought I was asleep in bed. And then I’d hear my mum crying afterwards.”
Becky stopped, her blue eyes flooding with tears. “Could he really take me away from you and Jack, and make me live with him?”
Her voice caught.
I had promised myself that I wouldn’t lie to her. Much as I would have liked to. “Legally speaking, he could. But he’s not going to,” I said. “Because Jack won’t let that happen. I won’t let that happen. Holmes and Uncle John and Mycroft won’t let that happen.”
Becky looked up at me. Usually she was so bright and irrepressible that it was easy to forget how much ugliness she’d already seen in her young life.
Right now, though, her gaze was shadowed by an almost adult look of world-weary sadness.
“You can’t promise that, Lucy.”
I could remember myself at Becky’s age. Watching all the other girls at school going home for Christmas and summer holidays, and knowing that I had no family or home of my own. I couldn’t change that past, but I could make sure that Becky wasn’t ripped away from us. Not as long as I breathed.
I put an arm around Becky anyway and hugged her tightly. “Too bad. Because I just did promise. You’re part of our family and no one is going to take you away.”
12. THREE MISSING SHIPS
WATSON
The January wind tore at my hat and scarf as we climbed the granite steps of the Royal Exchange. As we passed through the entrance to the Society of Lloyd’s, Mycroft Holmes was there to meet us, standing well inside, out of the cold. Beyond the hallway we could see a huge room with a high ceiling, and a vast expanse of desks, mainly unoccupied.
“We meet in the underwriting room,” said Mycroft. “Where Lloyd’s conducts business.” He gave a nod to a uniformed attendant.
The uniformed man retreated and a moment later a small, dapper fellow hurried up to us, a broad smile on his quite handsome features. He had a boyishly thick shock of blond hair, which had gone slightly gray at the temples, where it spilled wispily over the tips of his ears.
“Gentlemen! I am Avery Jacoby,” he said. “And I cannot tell you how delighted the Society is to see you. It is not every day that we have visitors who bring promise of repayment of a million pounds. Please let me show you to a table where we can have a bit of privacy.”
“Where is the chancellor?” asked Holmes.
“We will join him in another room, after we discuss a few mundane matters.”
We walked within the cavernous space of the underwriting room. The lofty structure called to my mind the impressive size of the Crystal Palace or the Royal Albert Hall, but across the wide hardwood floor here I saw polished wooden desks, small tables, and upright chairs clustered, in little groups. The focal point of the room was an elevated rotunda, with carved dark wood columns that soared thirty feet high and reminded me of the altar area in a cathedral. Enshrined within the stately columns hung a shining brass bell.
“That’s from HMS Lutine,” Jacoby said, pointing up at the bell. “A treasure ship—our most famous loss ever, but we paid the claim in a week. It’s become a symbol of honor for us—a reminder that we live up to our promises. Now it has a practical use as well: we ring it when big news comes in, so that everyone hears at the same time. One ring means bad news, and two is good.”
Moving on, Jacoby then stopped before a table that had a green cloth spread across it. “Maybe you’ll give us some good news someday, Mr. Holmes. Maybe you’ll help us salvage something big.”
Holmes said nothing.
Atop the table awaiting us I saw a silver tea service, with a large plate of scones, clotted cream, sugar, and jam. There were four chairs; we each took one. I settled gratefully into mine while Jacoby served us. The tea was hot and with cream and sugar, precisely what I required to thaw my frozen faculties back to life.
“Please tell us about the discovery you have made, Mr. Holmes.” Jacoby said.
“If you mean the opium chest we discovered last night,” Holmes replied, “it was stolen shortly after we found it.”
“So I heard.” Jacoby bent to his briefcase, hefted it onto the table and produced a file, from which he extracted a photograph. He handed the photograph to Holmes.
“Did the chest look like this?”
Holmes returned the photograph after a momentary glance. “The construction was identical, as was the inscription—except for the number of the chest and the date.”
“Tantalizing.” Jacoby rummaged in his briefcase once again and extracted another photograph, this time of a ship at harbor, taken from possibly a hundred feet away so that the full length of the vessel was visible.
“This is the Chichester, a cargo vessel that sailed from Calcutta with its two sister ships, the Scallion and the Bottlenose. Each of them held two thousand chests of opium. All three vessels were doomed—at least that is what we have thought until now.”
Jacoby gestured towards the Lutine Bell. “More than a year ago, that bell rang one single time, when we received word that all three ships had sunk in a typhoon. A very sad occasion that I shall not forget, for it meant that I and others of our subscribers would have to empty our pockets to the tune of one million pounds. It would have been more, had we insured all three ships for their full value.” Jacoby paused, taking a small sip of tea. “What I wish you to consider, Mr. Holmes, is that the chests were loaded into the hol
d of the vessel you see here, under inspection of company officials from both our company and our client, the Red Dragon Company. The hatchway was sealed immediately, to be opened only upon arrival in Hong Kong port.”
“I follow you,” Holmes said.
“So how could the chest that you saw have been spirited from—what to all reason and logic—would have been a watery grave, and be found in a seaman’s rented room in Kensington?”
“I can enumerate several possibilities,” Holmes said. “But first, may I know the source of the reliable information that you received that indicated the ships had gone down in a typhoon?”
“A Red Dragon vessel, the Tsing Po, was inbound for Calcutta at the same time that the three ships whose cargo we insured were outbound for Hong Kong. The Tsing Po became caught in the same storm. However, it was sailing with a nearly empty hold, and hence was far more buoyant and maneuverable than the three vessels headed south-east and east. It saw them from a distance as they were swept up in the storm. Later when the skies cleared, the Tsing Po searched the area. There was nothing. Only a few bits of flotsam that indicated they had come from the Chichester. That was the report that the Tsing Po captain gave to its company office in Calcutta harbor.”
“And you believed the report,” Holmes said.
“I see what you are getting at. The captain could have given a false report. But why?”
“The Red Dragon Company may have sailed the three ships to another port, and subsequently renamed them. They may have then unloaded the opium and sold it elsewhere.”
“We thought of that possibility. We obtained the names and addresses of the crewmen of the three vessels. We checked with the relatives of each crewman. All were grieving the loss of their family breadwinner. There were no exceptions.”
“The men could have been relocated and taken new names, waiting for time to pass before reuniting with their families.”
“We thought of that possibility as well. We had our agents watch the families for six months before we paid the claim. With approximately one hundred and fifty men and their families, we would have expected the secret to come out somewhere. Yet no one talked, as much as we could determine.”
“There are two alternatives. Each is more sinister,” Holmes said. “The crewmen may have been lost, but not lost at sea. They may have been party to the theft. Then, upon the delivery of the ships to whatever the alternative destination, they may have been killed. The effect on the grieving families would be the same.”
Jacoby paled, and he brushed his hair back from where it had fallen over his forehead. “Murder of one hundred and fifty men. Difficult to contemplate. What is the other possibility?”
“That the opium chests were never loaded onto the three ships.”
“Our agent saw them go into the holds—”
“You mistake my meaning,” Holmes said, interrupting. “What went into the holds may not have been opium. Balls of wood or some other material may have been coated with opium paste and poppy petals, and then loaded into duplicate chests.”
“To guard against that possibility, before each chest is sealed at the East India Company factory, one of the opium balls is cut into, and a small wedge is removed.”
“I see,” said Holmes. “And then?”
“The sealed chests are loaded onto a caravan of carts and driven under army protection to Calcutta Harbor. At the harbor, they are taken off the carts and loaded into the East India Company warehouse where the auction is held. The winning bidder—in this case, the Red Dragon Company—then takes possession at the auction warehouse and is responsible for the cargo from that point on.”
“Does the winning bidder also perform the test on the opium—cutting into the ball of one of the chests?”
“They may if they choose to do so. I will have to check to see if they did.”
“The Society does not supervise?”
“We insure delivery, Mr. Holmes. Not quality.”
“So the Red Dragon Company might easily have falsified the test. Moreover, the false cargo may have caused the ships to vanish. Some of the balls may have contained enough explosives to demolish the hull of each vessel. With a timing device on each, all three could have gone down at the same time. The scheme then needs only the captain of the Tsing Po to report a typhoon instead of three explosions.”
“What you have described is piracy,” Jacoby said. “Combined with fraud on a gigantic scale, against Her Majesty’s Government. But I do believe it could be accomplished as you have described.”
He got to his feet. “Let us go to our director’s room.”
13. A REJECTION
WATSON
I had met the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Sir Michael Hicks Beach, on several occasions, and he was not in the director’s room. The two gentlemen at the table were both strangers to me.
Mycroft indicated the man nearest us, a dour-looking fellow, with long, luxuriant gray whiskers, which oddly split into two long flowing parts, the pointed tips of which nearly touched his shoulders. His light blue eyes had a subdued, dream-like quality, almost sorrowful. His expression had a worried cast.
I found myself staring.
But Mycroft introduced him. “This is Sir Halliday Macartney, English Secretary in the Chinese Legation.”
Macartney nodded coolly at Holmes and me. I took an instant dislike to the fellow. Contrary to his sorrow-laden gaze, there was something haughty and dismissive in his demeanor. There was also something about his name that nagged at my memory.
“And this is Lord Ernshaw,” Mycroft continued, indicating a tall, middle-aged gentleman so extremely thin that his neck jutting up from his collar put me in mind of a stalk from the circular rim of a flower pot. He wore his dark hair shoulder length. His pallid, yellowed complexion reminded me of a consumptive patient, yet his dark eyes seemed alert, and even forceful, as they surveyed us. He rose slightly, supporting himself with his hands on the armrests of his chair.
“The chancellor could not attend this morning,” Ernshaw said. “However, he does not wish you in any way to underestimate the importance of the task which we will present to you, Mr. Holmes.”
“What task would that be?” Holmes replied.
Macartney cut in before Ernshaw could reply. “I am here to represent the government of China,” he said, the words coming in a broad Scottish brogue that seemed preposterous to me, given the association with an Asian country. “My principals in the matter, including His Serene Highness the Emperor, also have a view on the task; however, ours is not perfectly aligned with that of Lord Ernshaw here.”
“Your views do not concern me,” Holmes said. “What is the task?”
Both men looked astonished. “Why, we want you to recover the opium, of course,” said Ernshaw. “Since Jacoby here has determined that there is a possibility that the missing cargo still exists. Is that not so, Mr. Jacoby?”
Jacoby nodded.
“Whatever opium there is,” said Macartney.
“We want it,” said Ernshaw.
Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Who, might I ask, is ‘We’?”
“Lloyds will no doubt assert title” Jacoby said. “Also, the Red Dragon Company may assert a claim.”
“And you represent the Red Dragon, Mr. Macartney?” Holmes asked.
“They are not my primary client. Of course, the Red Dragon will wish to acquire the opium and bring it into China for sale at a very considerable profit, which was what they would have done if the cargo had not been lost. But it is His Serene Highness the Emperor’s official wish that the opium does not enter China. His Majesty has been very vocal on that point. He deplores the disastrous effect of the drug upon his subjects.”
“Then His Majesty would want the opium destroyed,” Holmes said.
To my surprise, Macartney shook his head, the two tips of his beard moving sidewise like a gray broom in front of his chest. “The matter is a complex one. Under certain circumstances recovering the opium would be acceptable to His M
ajesty.”
“What circumstances?”
“As you may know, His Majesty’s government is currently negotiating a new treaty regarding the territories north of Hong Kong and Kowloon. It would be helpful if those negotiations were to include a provision for payment for the sale of opium,” Macartney said. “In any event, some monetary compensation is only fair. The opium, if recovered, will cause trouble in His Majesty’s kingdom. His Majesty should be compensated for that trouble.”
We all waited for Holmes to respond. He sat silent, his lips compressed and twisted in a grimace of distaste.
Finally, Holmes spoke. “I decline.”
“Decline?” asked Ernshaw, with an astonished look.
“On what grounds?” asked Macartney.
“I am free to select my own clients,” Holmes replied.
“If it is a question of your fee—”
“It is a question of my integrity. I decline to perform a task that will ultimately deepen the degradation of thousands of opium addicts and impoverish and enslave thousands of new ones.”
“We can pay you a hundred thousand pounds,” said Ernshaw.
Holmes shrugged. “I have no interest.” He rose from his chair.
“Five hundred thousand, then,” said Macartney. “Upon recovery of the opium.”
“I shall not recover the opium,” Holmes said. He was standing now.
“Your authority would be virtually unlimited,” said Ernshaw. His eyes were wide with excitement, but then I thought I saw them narrow as he went on. “Anyone who interfered with your investigation or, in particular, with the opium, would be stealing government property, which, on a scale of the amounts we are discussing here is—” he paused for effect, and delivered the next word slowly, in a stentorian tone, rolling each of the four syllables off his lips “—trea-son-a-ble. And that is a hanging offense, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes appeared to have heard nothing of this. He was opening the door.
Standing just outside the doorway with one hand upraised to knock was the uniformed attendant whom we had seen at the entrance to the Society offices. “My apologies, gentlemen,” the attendant said. “I have a telegraph message here for Mr. Holmes from Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. It is marked ‘Most Urgent.’”
