Die Again, Mr Holmes

by Anna Elliott

  “It’s more than that.” Jack’s finger traced a line on the map. “It looks to be a diagram showing an underground tunnel between the docks and …” He bent his head, studying the map more closely. “And the Grand Hotel.”

  Flynn didn’t often look impressed, but at that he gave Jack an appreciative look. “I wouldn’t ’a thought to look up the chimney.”

  Becky had to admit that she wouldn’t have, either. She hadn’t seen the dried spot of saltwater on the hearthstones.

  Jack refolded the map and slid it back inside the oilskin. “Good to know I can still spot something the two of you overlook.”

  He was still trying to look stern, but a slight smile tugged at the edges of his mouth. It was enough for Becky to risk asking, “Are you … Does that mean you’re not mad at us anymore?”

  “We’ll talk about that later.” The furrow between Jack’s brows was back, but even still, Becky felt slightly better. He straightened up. “But for right now, Lucy needs us—and the way things look, so does Mr. Holmes.”

  60. NO ROOM AT THE GRAND HOTEL

  Lincolnshire

  WATSON

  Lucy and I reached the railway station at Shellingford early in the evening. An open carriage brought us to the Grand Hotel after a freezing ten-minute ride, passing the now-deserted boardwalk and a clock tower, built only last year to commemorate the Queen’s Jubilee. A cargo ship was approaching a nearby dock.

  The hotel, a sprawling affair, had been recently constructed for the seaside summer vacationing crowd. Bright lights blazed in the lobby area, but nearly all its upper windows were dark.

  A bellman stood outside the lobby entrance, a woolen muffler partly concealing his face.

  The coachman put our suitcases on the ground and drove away.

  The bellman did not move. I looked at him expectantly, but he might as well have been a guard outside Buckingham Palace, for all the notice he took of us.

  Leaving Lucy beside the bags, I strode deliberately to him.

  “It don’t pay me to help you,” the bellman said. “You’re the fourth one this evening. You’ll want me to shift your baggage for you and take it to your room. But there ain’t no room for you.”

  I was in no mood to take no for an answer. “Explain,” I said.

  “The Chinese fellow’s clientele takes all the rooms this time of the month. So you see, you’d be disappointed and I’d not get my tip.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I said. I went back to Lucy and told her what had happened.

  “The manager’s name is Mr. Torrance,” she said. “Chubby little man. Middle age. See whether he will help. But don’t mention my name. Say it’s two rooms, for you and your niece.”

  I took the suitcases into the lobby, set them down at the concierge’s desk, and turned to the registration desk. A rotund dark-haired man looked up at me. His thick lips grimaced in an artificial smile, revealing stained and crooked teeth.

  “I’m sorry. We are fully occupied.”

  “I have a personal invitation from Mr. Ming,” I said.

  “Indeed?”

  “At the Chinese Legation. He told me of the event. I am a doctor, and he assured me that the presentations would be of interest.” I paused. “You are Mr. Torrance, the manager?”

  A wily look came over the plump man’s oily features. “Mr. Ming mentioned my name, did he?”

  “He did not. I learned it from the doorman outside.”

  At that moment, I saw the hunched form of Ming himself on the staircase, coming down into the lobby. He was followed by the tall, young Chinese man who had been cured by his treatment.

  In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought, and waved to him. “Mr. Ming!”

  My efforts were rewarded. Ming saw me from the staircase, and at first did not appear to recognize me. Then he smiled and said something to his younger companion. They both joined me at the desk. After a brief explanation, I had the keys for two rooms.

  “Perhaps you will introduce us to your niece,” said Ming.

  I looked around for Lucy, but she was gone. “Perhaps later,” I said.

  “Then please join us in the ballroom. Our patients will be available for interviews in fifteen minutes,” he said. “We will have refreshments available. I am sure you will appreciate that after your long journey from London.”

  I made polite thanks, gave the bellman my room number, and went upstairs with him and my suitcase. The room was small, and on the top floor. Inside, the bellman gestured to a gabled window, framed by a triangular cut-out in the low ceiling. “You have a view of the Channel,” he said brightly as I pressed a shilling into his outstretched palm.

  A few minutes after he had gone, I heard a knock at the door. It was Lucy.

  “I followed you.”

  I handed her the key to the other room.

  She took it, but then showed me another key. “Whatever they said about it being full of Chinese visitors is just not true. This is the key to 304 downstairs—I kept it from when Becky and I stayed there last week. The room is empty. I saw hardly anyone in the corridor.”

  “Why would they say they were full when they weren’t?”

  “They don’t want witnesses,” she said.

  61. THE BALLROOM

  WATSON

  Lucy accompanied me to the hotel ballroom, where the demonstration had begun. From the entrance at the side of the room we saw thirty upright chairs arranged in two rows to face the speaker.

  All of the guests appeared to be Chinese. All bore the same prosperous appearance as those I had seen at the Chinese Legation. I had the impression that they were all married couples. The women wore silk dresses of various subdued colours, and their sleeves were very large and wide, so as to make it impossible to see whether they held anything in their hands. Their sleek black hair was tightly braided and adorned with various forms of metallic jewelry, each resembling a small tiara. Occasionally one would turn and whisper to the other, but for the most part all listened with polite attention.

  Ming was the speaker. He spoke in the same dry, soft voice I had heard a week before. He stood between two empty upright armchairs that faced the assembly like two small thrones, though barren of adornment. Occasionally he would shuffle sideways to rest his right hand on the back of one of the chairs. His left hand, the injured one, I recalled, he kept close to his chest.

  Lucy and I took seats at the end of the second row of chairs. Ming did not appear to notice. He continued to speak, his Chinese words completely unintelligible to me. He continued for several minutes. Then he nodded, as though his introductory points had been made. He picked up a small brass handbell from the chair on his left and rang it.

  The guests leaned forward in expectation. Behind Ming, a door opened. A slender, dark-haired Englishwoman took a hesitant step into the room. She turned and looked back as though seeking reassurance. Then another Englishwoman, this one taller and with flaxen hair, followed her. Both wore black dresses. They stood next to one another, not looking at each other, but waiting. Then in the doorway behind them appeared a tall Chinese man, the same man Ming had introduced to me at the Legation as a successfully cured patient.

  Closing the door behind him, the tall man took a firm, confident step to stand between the two ladies and offered his arm to each. Each took it without hesitation. The three advanced into the room in a manner reminding me of actors at the end of a stage performance taking their curtain call. No one applauded, however. The guests simply observed politely as the Chinese man seated each of the ladies in turn and then stepped back to stand between them, his fingertips lightly resting on the tall back of each chair.

  Lucy spoke softly into my ear. “I know all three of them. The taller woman is Lord Lynley’s widow, and the other is the wife of Slade, the chief of police in Shellingford. Both are most definitely addicted to laudanum.”

  Ming stepped forward to face the two ladies. He bowed formally. Then he turned to his audience. “I shall speak in English, as these two
good ladies have no Chinese. Perhaps one day they may wish to learn. Each is already making great progress in her struggle to break free of the drug that has enslaved so many unfortunate souls around the world. I shall ask each to simply tell her story in a brief manner, so that you can understand how she has come to be here and how she now holds hope for the future. I shall start with Lady Lynley.”

  Lady Lynley hesitated.

  “Madam?”

  “Forgive me,” she said. She appeared lost in thought for another moment. Chen lightly touched her shoulder. “Oh,” she said, glancing up at him. “I don’t know why I am so hesitant to speak all of a sudden. Normally I can talk to anyone.” She gave him what I thought was a coquettish smile. “Perhaps I might have another one of those pink pastilles? No? Well, I suppose it’s not time yet.

  “I will be brief. I heard about the cure from a friend in London, but I didn’t pursue it. Though I ought to have. I was feeling quite vile, without energy, no drive, if you know what I mean, and the only thing I really wanted was more laudanum. I was irritable without it. It became embarrassing, because of my social obligations. People were wondering what was wrong with me. Then I came back here for my husband’s funeral.”

  She gave a little grimace, as though the event was a distasteful interlude. She looked out at the audience. “You may all think me heartless, but I felt nothing at the ceremony. We had stopped loving each other years ago—if we ever did. But that is irrelevant now. To get on with life is what I want. I will find someone else. I am a titled lady, and quite wealthy enough to attract someone. And with my laudanum—what shall I call it, my laudanum compulsion?—with that behind me, and with my new medicine working so well, I do have hope.”

  A low murmur came from the audience as she concluded, along with some impolite stares, the guests no doubt appalled, or at the least astonished, by the degree of candor they had witnessed from a member of the British aristocracy. But Lady Lynley took no notice. She folded her hands in her lap and lowered her gaze, withdrawing within herself once again.

  Ming spoke. “Thank you Lady Lynley. Now, Mrs. Slade?”

  “I’m not a good speaker,” the dark-haired woman said, her hand going momentarily to her mouth. “I am very different from Lady Lynley, of course. I have a husband. A good husband. A good man. A policeman …”

  Her voice trailed off. Chen tapped her shoulder and whispered something into her ear. “Oh,” she said. “My daughter. Yes, I had a daughter. I lost her. For a while, my nerves were quite bad. Then for a time, laudanum helped. But it becomes expensive. My husband is a good man, as I said, but we could not afford to pay Mr. Seewald. Then Mr. Chen here told me there might be a better way, a way to free myself. I have been free of laudanum for nearly a week now. All I need is a little pastille, which is no more expensive than—” she broke off, then giggled “—than penny candy! It is too good to be true, but it is, quite true. My hunger for laudanum has gone. Mr. Seewald will not get any more of my money!”

  Ming stepped forward. “Thank you, ladies,” he said, giving a slight bow. “And thank you, also, honored guests, for your attentive patience. This will conclude our demonstration.”

  At this, Chen stepped between the two ladies and helped them to their feet. He offered an arm to each, and then turned with them in tow.

  Lucy and I also got to our feet to make way for the other guests who had been seated in our row. She took me aside. “Something was not right about that,” she said. “I want to talk to Mrs. Slade and Lady Lynley. Can you ask Ming about the cost of those pastilles of his? And how long the treatment will last and where the pastilles come from? I will meet you in your room.”

  Just after Lucy left, Ming saw me and came over to ask for my impressions of the demonstration. He was quite forthcoming regarding the details of his cure, so much so that it seemed to me he was somehow invested in the sales of the product.

  “As I explained,” he said, “our cure relies wholly on a purified form of opium. It is poetic justice, as you English call it. The poppy itself, when skillfully worked upon, sufficiently creates an elixir that can undo the horrible damage wrought by its more primitive forms. The refined product conquers addiction to morphine and opium, and the patient suffers none of the dangerous symptoms that occur when these more primitive medicines are discontinued. The new product is truly a hero among drugs, and for this reason the manufacturer has named it heroin.”

  “The treatment consists of only those pastilles that the ladies spoke of?”

  “The pastilles are all that is necessary.”

  “And the cost to the patient is low?”

  “The manufacturing cost is not much greater than the cost to produce morphine. Heroin can be produced with only a few simple additional steps in the refining process. However, I am certain that establishments such as this will seek to expand the expenditure made by patients—and their own profits, of course—by adding diet and exercise, massage, steam baths and hot tub hydrotherapy. Already those services are available here, in the hotel spa. One has only to walk down a flight of stairs or use the lift. Perhaps you would like a tour in the morning.”

  I wondered if the spa was where the two women had been taken. But at that moment Ming caught sight of another guest, likely an important investor, and excused himself. “Forgive me,” he said as he shuffled away, leaning on his cane. “Please stay here as long as you like and partake of the refreshments.”

  62. A MESSAGE AND A DECISION

  LUCY

  “Miss! Miss!”

  I turned to find Bill, the hotel bellboy, calling to me from near the front desk.

  “Telegram for you, miss! It’s just come.”

  I glanced at the hotel’s front entrance, where Lady Lynley and Mrs. Slade had just gone out. My skin was prickling with impatience to catch up with them and speak to them both about what had just occurred. I couldn’t pinpoint an exact reason, but everything about the demonstration we’d just seen had felt wrong to me—not least because I hadn’t seen a sign of Chief Constable Slade, only his wife.

  I might not know the chief constable well, but I knew he wasn’t the man to send his fragile wife out to speak in public without at the very least being by her side to offer support.

  But I was also trying to avoid attracting undue attention, and I’d only arouse suspicion if I told Bill that the telegram could wait.

  Besides, it might be from Jack.

  I tore open the envelope. The message was brief, and it wasn’t signed; Jack was being careful, as well. I read the handful of words.

  Both packages recovered. Will send by first post.

  I exhaled a quick breath of relief. In other words, Jack had found both Becky and Flynn, and they would all three be taking the first available train to Shellingford.

  What was implied but not written, I knew, was, Try to keep out of trouble for that long.

  I tapped the paper against my hand, quickly sorting through my options. I could find Mrs. Slade—or Lady Lynley, but of the two of them, Mrs. Slade seemed the most likely to give me honest answers—

  I went still, my thought snapping off at the sight of Mr. Ming and Kai-chen, going out through the hotel doors.

  I didn’t have time to go upstairs and fetch my outdoor things from my room. But there was a dark blue woolen cloak draped over the back of one of the lobby chairs, the owner presumably intending to come back for it later.

  In an instant, I picked it up, threw it around my shoulders, and pushed my way through the hotel door.

  I could question Mrs. Slade. Or I could follow the two men who, increasingly, seemed to be at the heart of this affair.

  63. A PRISONER IN DARKNESS

  LUCY

  Outside, night had fallen, and a few light flurries of snow were drifting down, illuminated by the chill light of a rising moon. The air was clear and so piercingly cold it almost hurt to breathe. I stayed in the shadows of the hotel and watched as Mr. Ming and Kai-chen walked slowly along the front of the Grand Hotel—then
turned, circling round towards the back.

  I remembered once asking my father why he very nearly always assumed the worst about people, and Holmes had replied calmly that presuming the worst saved a significant amount of time.

  I had no absolute proof at that moment that there was anything sinister about Mr. Ming and Kai-chen’s errand. They could just be going back to the tea shop or in search of a late supper.

  But every instinct I had screamed at me to find out. I did a quick calculation, weighing my options. I wasn’t unarmed. From the second we’d set foot on the train to Shellingford, I’d known I didn’t want to be without a weapon. Right now I had a knife in the top of my boot and my Ladysmith in my skirt pocket. True, I was alone. But if I went back to find Uncle John, I would lose all chance of finding out where they were going.

  I sent a silent apology to Jack, then quickened my pace and followed, reaching the corner of the hotel.

  A narrow service alleyway ran alongside the Grand, presumably used by tradesmen for delivering coal and groceries and the like to the back entrance.

  And right now, raised voices were coming from somewhere in the darkness of that alley.

  Both voices were speaking Chinese, but I didn’t need to understand the words to recognize Mr. Ming’s dry, precise tones and Kai-chen’s lower-pitched ones—or to know that both men were angry.

  It sounded to me as though Mr. Ming was berating his younger assistant for something, and Kai-chen was voicing an increasingly furious defense.

  I risked a quick look around the corner, but the alley was pitch dark, with mounds of trash and wooden barrels forming looming black shadows. I could scarcely see my own hand in front of my face, much less the two men—although I could still hear them.

  Mr. Ming said something else, the words bitten-off and curt, the tone icily … final.

  I managed to scramble back from the alley entrance just in time, taking refuge in the small alcove formed behind one of the hotel’s jutting bay windows. Footsteps approached, coming out of the alleyway.