Die Again, Mr Holmes

by Anna Elliott

  37. NEWGATE, REVISITED

  London, Tuesday, January 11, 1898

  WATSON

  Holmes and I returned to Newgate Prison the morning after our meeting with Jack Kelly. Holmes had spent much of the intervening time out of my company. Today he had obtained a copy of the visitor’s log and was prepared, he said, for a more productive interview with Thomas Newman.

  The large wall clock at the prison entrance read exactly ten o’clock when we descended the stone steps. The uniformed guard outside the corridor leading to Newman’s cell recognized us immediately.

  “Just ’ad his breakfast,” he said.

  “Any visitors today?”

  “Just the clergyman.” The guard knocked on the metal door. “Your visitors.”

  There was no answer. The guard opened the small window hatch. “Sleepin’, looks like.”

  “Open the door,” Holmes said.

  The heavy cell door swung open with a metallic clang to reveal the rotund figure of Thomas Newman lying on his bunk with both hands folded across his belly. A beatific smile softened his pig-like features, as though he were having a beautiful dream.

  After a moment, I realized he was not breathing.

  Holmes stepped quickly inside the cell and pressed his fingertip beneath the base of Newnan’s ear.

  “No pulse,” he said. “Dr. Watson may wish to verify.”

  I did so.

  As I stood up, I noticed a small piece of paper in Newman’s clasped hands. Making certain that Holmes and the guard were watching, I pulled at a corner of the paper. It slipped out easily.

  On the paper three words were written in smudged black ink, in the same crude block capitals I had seen on the note found in St. Philip’s Church.

  This note read: NOW I’M DONE.

  38. INTERVIEW WITH A WIDOW

  WATSON

  Two hours later we were stepping out of a police carriage with Lestrade in Clapham Common, at the house where Newman had lived in for the past five years. The dwelling was modest and cottage-like. In the freshly-fallen snow it might have been the model for a children’s story illustration. Our constable driver waited with the coach as we walked up the snow-covered front footpath towards the house.

  The woman I had seen at the trial opened the door. She wore the same veil I had seen, but it was now draped over her shoulders. She shivered against the cold and looked sharply at Holmes.

  “You were at the trial,” she said. “And you as well. All three of you testified.” Her voice had a soft, fearful quality that made me wonder about her life spent with Newman, who from every outward appearance would have been a brute of a husband. “Not that it matters now.”

  “We have news of Mr. Newman, Madam,” said Lestrade quietly. “May we come in?”

  “May as well,” she said.

  We took off our boots in the vestibule at Holmes’s insistence, so as not to track wet snow over her floor and parlor carpet.

  We settled ourselves on the upholstered chairs in the small parlor. “You’re going to tell me he’s dead, aren’t you?” she said.

  At Lestrade’s nod, she gestured towards the dining room, where on the table stood a vase with a huge sprawling bouquet of white lilies. She went on, “Those came just before you did.”

  Holmes stood and went over to the table. He read the card. “‘We are very sorry for your loss. May his soul rejoice in Heaven with the Almighty God and all His Angels.’ It is not signed.”

  “Delivery man said it was from the church. Like those others on the sideboard that came Friday.”

  Holmes inspected the other bouquet. “These still look nearly fresh. Do you keep them in your basement at night?”

  She shook her head. “I never go down there. I change the water in the vases.”

  Holmes returned to his seat.

  “I am very sorry to disturb you at this difficult time—”

  “Oh, you go right ahead, Inspector. I should just like to know one thing before you begin.”

  “Yes?”

  “How did he die?”

  “He was found quietly resting on his bunk, his hands clasped, and a note in his hand. The note read ‘Now I’m done.’”

  She nodded. “Quietly resting, you say?”

  “A beatific smile on his face,” I put in.

  “He told me he hated to be marched about and pushed around. Said that would be the worst thing, getting frog-marched and then having everyone looking at him and he couldn’t do nothing but stand there and let them put the noose around his neck. So I’m glad.”

  “Did he take his own life, do you think?”

  “’Course he did. I saw him write the note yesterday afternoon.”

  “Indeed?” Lestrade’s ferret-like features registered astonishment. “You surprise me, madam.”

  “Why should you be surprised?”

  “Because the note greatly resembled another that was found outside the prison.”

  “A note that said, ‘Not done yet’? I saw him write that out, too.”

  “When was that?” Holmes asked.

  “Night before the jury was to do their voting. He kept the paper in his pocket. So he wouldn’t forget it, he said. It gave him comfort, knowin’ that if the vote went against him, he would be able to remember what to say even if he felt … flustered, like.”

  “And you were with him yesterday?”

  She nodded. “He were all smiles. He said he’d been ready for a month now, little bits of powder, brought in little by little, and now he had plenty, more than enough. He asked for the priest to come in in the morning. He said that would put everything right ’cause he’d be forgiven and shriven and all. I didn’t tell him what I thought—well, it weren’t my place, were it? He would do what he would do, always would. And God may do whatever he will do, no matter what a priest does or doesn’t. Don’t you think that’s right, Mr. Holmes?”

  This was the first time she had addressed Holmes directly.

  He met her gaze. “My opinion on theological matters is quite unimportant in the larger scheme of things, Mrs. Newman,” he said. “But I should think that any god worthy of the name would be unconstrained by human rituals. Now, may I ask you a question?”

  She nodded.

  “Was your husband a good provider?”

  She made a sweeping gesture at the walls and furniture and the plantings visible outside the window. “You can see it.”

  “The home is yours?”

  “Free and clear. Paid off Monday. I had the letter from the bank. Took it to him yesterday and showed him. We owed eight hundred pounds but now it’s mine, free and clear.”

  “Have you any idea where the funds came from?”

  “Thomas said his boys had done a service for a gentleman and this was the payment. Well, part of it—the boys got some, of course.”

  “Is your son one of the boys?”

  “Oh no, Mr. Holmes. He’s in the navy, is my young Tom. ’E’s a British tar sure enough, an’ I’m just as proud—”

  For a moment she could not go on. Then she took a small flask from the pocket of her sweater, sipped at it, and then tucked it away. “You say he died peaceful-like?”

  “His expression was serene,” I said.

  “He told me he wanted a proper funeral. Not like he would have had if—”

  “I understand,” Holmes said. “A proper funeral, with flowers like those.” He nodded toward the vases in the dining room.

  “Like those.”

  Holmes stood. “Thank you, Mrs. Newman. We shall not trouble you further at this difficult time.”

  She saw us to the vestibule where we had left our boots.

  Closing the inner door, Holmes whispered to me, “Sit on the floor while you are putting on your boots, Watson. I need you to take two minutes.” Then he quickly slipped on his own pair and went outside.

  I sat on the tiled floor of the vestibule and made a show of fumbling at my task, grunting and tugging while Lestrade stared at me. When I judged t
hat two minutes had elapsed, I stood, and said rather loudly, “Whew! Not getting any younger, Lestrade.” A moment later we were on Mrs. Newman’s front stoop. Holmes was at the back of our police coach, motioning for us to hurry.

  We clambered inside. “Scotland Yard,” Holmes called to our driver.

  “What was that about?” asked Lestrade, when our carriage was moving.

  “The missing opium chest is no longer missing,” Holmes said. “It is in this coach, but it is empty. I shall explain when we reach Scotland Yard.”

  Whereupon he sat back, closed his eyes, and was silent for the remainder of our journey.

  39. AN UNFORESEEN EVENT

  WATSON

  At Scotland Yard, we had the empty opium chest brought up to the interview room. Jack Kelly joined us, at Holmes’s request. Lestrade brought in his notes. After comparison with the inscription on the bottom of the chest, Lestrade pronounced the numbers to be a match.

  “The same chest,” he said. “How did you know it would be at the Newmans’s house?”

  Holmes shrugged. “It was a combination of good fortune and observation. Outside the house, I saw footprints to and from the rear entrance. Flowers had come just before we arrived. I was curious about the florist, of course, and about the identity of the sender, since we had only an hour earlier discovered that Newman was dead. So I took the opportunity to examine the flowers and to read the card. From the dining room, I had a clear view into the kitchen where I observed still-wet footprints coming from the rear entrance to the home. So the flower delivery man had not troubled to wipe his boots. I was noting that this indicated a certain disregard for Mrs. Newman, or at least carelessness, which might help identify the florist and the sender.

  “Then, following the footprints to where they returned to the back entrance, I saw the chest. It was beside the back door. The lid was open, and the chest was being used as a receptacle for Mrs. Newman’s boots. I saw the resemblance to the chest we had found at Swafford’s. So when we departed, I took my opportunity. I quickly went around to the back of the house and purloined it.” Holmes looked at his watch.

  “This has been a most instructive morning,” he continued. “To take what we have learned today into account I must revise my hypothesis of the case, but only slightly.”

  “How did the chest come to be at Mrs. Newman’s?”

  “Let us review once more what we know,” said Holmes. “There is a great deal of opium stored somewhere. Hidden away. In thousands of chests similar to this one. The owner of the chests—we will call him ‘X’—retained the Bleeders to watch for the missing one in case it made its way to London. They did so. They may have murdered Swafford at the Red Dragon. They followed Swafford’s body to St. Thomas, and then followed us from St. Thomas to Swafford’s house. They recovered the opium chest and brought it first to the Red Dragon, in order to throw us off the scent, and then to Newman’s home, placing the chest in the basement where his wife never goes.

  “Shortly thereafter the Bleeders, wanting to be paid, must have given all or most of the opium balls to their client ‘X’—possibly through the florist’s delivery man, the handover being supervised by one of ‘the boys,’ as Mrs. Newman calls them. There was a delivery of flowers on Friday, she said. The chest itself would be useless to ‘X’—in fact, he would not want to be found with it in his possession. So it was left behind. Mrs. Newman saw it and used it for her boots.”

  “Do you believe her story that Newman committed suicide?”

  “She appeared perfectly sincere. Also, she knew the inscription on the note found at St. Philip’s Church.”

  “How did the note get to St. Philip’s?”

  “Newman must have given it to one of his visitors—likely the visitor representing ‘X,’ or possibly ‘X’ himself.”

  “Why would ‘X’ want a note written by Newman found at a murder scene? Clearly Newman was not present.”

  “It was a message for Newman. It told Newman that ‘X’ was behind the murder of two innocent women and would not hesitate to murder a third. Newman did care for his wife, as we learned from her today.”

  “But now we’ve got a good clue to the identity of ‘X,’” said Lestrade. “His name will be on the visitors’ log.”

  “Or the name of his emissary,” Jack added.

  “Assuming that all Newman’s visitors gave truthful names,” said Holmes. “You should investigate that line. I also recommend you should investigate the florist, the priest, and—as I mentioned earlier—the guard. Both shifts.”

  “Someone brought Newman a lethal narcotic,” Jack said. “That someone might have a connection to ‘X.’ He deals in narcotics.”

  “You’re sure it was a narcotic?” Lestrade asked.

  “He was not feeling the pain of an ordinary poison as he died,” I said, “or the horror caused by a vegetable alkaloid. It was likely an opiate of some sort.”

  Holmes glanced at his watch again. “Also investigate who paid off the mortgage loan on Newman’s house. It will likely have been a cash transaction, but one should at least try.”

  “Someone may remember someone,” said Lestrade. “But where is the missing hoard of opium? Where are the six thousand chests?” He looked meaningfully at Holmes. “We need to find Swafford’s brother. He had to have stolen that chest from somewhere.”

  “Where was Swafford’s brother before he brought the opium to London?” Jack said.

  “These are lines of inquiry that show great promise,” said Holmes. He stood. “The point I wish to emphasize at the expense of all others,” he went on, “is that ‘X’ may be connected with insurrection against England. We know that last fall the Bleeders were hired to work for Burleigh and Mrs. Scott, the diamond smugglers. As a form of anonymous currency, opium can serve as expediently as diamonds. Internationally, opium can readily be converted to cash and the cash used for the same insurrectionary purposes.”

  “So the Bleeders may still be working for the insurrectionists they supported in the Ripper affair?”

  Holmes nodded. “Watson and I shall leave you with that thought. Now I must pursue my own lines of inquiry.”

  Outside Scotland Yard there were several cabs. We chose the third in the rank, following Holmes’s usual practice.

  “221B Baker Street,” he told the driver.

  “Newman was more human than I had imagined,” I said when we were in the cab.

  Holmes said nothing.

  “Or at least his wife cared for him,” I went on. “And presumably his men were loyal, since they returned all or at least most of the opium to ‘X’ or his representative. Otherwise, the payment of the loan against Newman’s house would not have been made.”

  Holmes still said nothing. We had slowed in traffic. Then we started again. Then we sped up, making a sharp turn.

  Looking outside, I realized we were no longer traveling along the route we had taken to reach home. Holmes had the same realization, for at the same moment, he rapped sharply on the communicating panel at the top of the cab. “Driver!”

  The panel opened.

  To my shock, a canister dropped from the opening and bounced on the floor of the cab. From the top of the canister a red, smoke-like cloud billowed. I caught the scent of a strange suffocating odor.

  Holmes pushed open the door on his side. “Watson, get out!”

  I did so, shoving open the door on my side of the cab. We were still moving, and I had difficulty leaping to the ground. I fell and hit my knee, scraping the palms of both my hands on the icy cobblestones.

  The pavement wavered in my vision as I staggered upright.

  Then a sharp blow struck me on the back of the head.

  All went black.

  40. A CALL FOR HELP

  Lincolnshire

  LUCY

  “Do you think Mr. Ming really might have killed Lord Lynley?” Becky asked.

  I had collected her from the Slades’ cottage, and now we were back at the hotel, climbing the stairs to our
room. “I’m honestly not sure. I don’t think he could have actually committed the murder—if it was murder, that is. He’s old and crippled. A man of Lord Lynley’s size and strength could have overpowered him easily.”

  I couldn’t, though, overlook the possibility that Mr. Ming could have ordered Kai-chen to carry out the killing. But then, Kai-chen’s anxiety for Alice and his assertion that Lord Lynley might know what had happened to her had rung true.

  We stepped out of the stairwell and onto the second floor. The plushly-carpeted corridor was as deserted as before, without even Bill’s uniformed figure in sight.

  I glanced down at Becky. Ordinarily—even though she had agreed to have me speak to Mr. Ming on my own—she would have been full of indignation at having missed the interview, and peppered me with questions.

  Now, though, her little eyebrows were knitted together, and she looked as though she was barely listening to my answers.

  “Are you thinking about Mrs. Slade?” As we’d left, Mrs. Slade had begged Becky to come back and visit her again.

  But Becky shook her head. “No.” She twitched her shoulders, then ran the few steps ahead to the door of our room.

  I sighed and followed—though I forgot to worry about Becky at the sight of the two yellow envelopes that had been pushed under the door.

  “Telegrams!” Becky pounced on them, sounding much more like herself. “Maybe one of them is from Jack!” She kept hold of one and handed me the other. “Here, I’ll open one and you open one!”