by David Marcum
“I saw you coming,” she said before he could thank her. “You have a guest in the downstairs. No card, but you’ll be wanting to see her.”
“No card? Is she alone?” Lestrade was nervous about women-callers coming alone.
“She is, and with a bad cough at that! She isn’t catching, though.”
“Did she say so?”
“No, but I know her. She volunteers with me at the charity hospitals from time to time.”
“Who is she?”
“Hmph. She can tell you that herself.”
Lestrade paused, his face half-wiped. “Mrs. Collins, is one of your friends in trouble again?”
At her frosty glare, he abandoned that approach and hastily pushed on.
“She came alone and without a card. Doesn’t that mean she doesn’t want a record of her visit?”
“I wouldn’t know, because I’m not your guest. We’ll let the two of you figure it out.”
Lestrade sighed. “Very well. Anything else I should know?”
“She’ll tell the truth,” said Mrs. Collins, primly. “I’m not sayin’ that because I know her. Dr. Watson knows her, too.”
That fact made him pause. The Watsons had buried themselves into everything that could keep them busy after Holmes’s death. It didn’t surprise him that someone knew the doctor, of course - he seemed to know the half of London that was worth knowing.
“Charity work?” He mumbled around the towel. “Is she one of those writers?”
Everyone wanted to be a Henry Mayhew these days, without so much as volunteering a spoon in a workhouse kitchen.
He shook his head slightly. No, it would be unlike Watson to cultivate that ilk.
Mrs. Collins inhaled through her large nose. “I expect you’ll be asking her the questions.”
Chapter V
1891 or The Present, and The Return of the Moseley Mystery
The visitor to Lestrade’s parlour wore black and sat mostly erect in one of the room’s horsehide chairs, a seeming half-yard of veil fallen away from her face and pooled in her lap.
“Oh!” His guest coughed. “You must be Mr. Lestrade!” she said, upon seeing him. “We both know Dr. Watson...”
Lestrade was surprised, instantly recognizing in his visitor the dusky complexion and proud nose the stamp of the Konkani people.
Over the years, a rather large lot of them had sailed over with their Portuguese patrons and the men were a familiar sight on the East docks. He had never before seen one of the women-kind.
As he took a seat in the chair opposite her, Lestrade could not help but note under the crinoline a plump woman full of strength - and yet her soft, black eyes seemed to hold a vaguely puzzled look.
“A friend of Dr. Watson,” Lestrade said, “is always welcome here, madam ...?”
“John assured me I could see you on short notice,” she blurted, clearly avoiding the opportunity to provide her name. “He said that you would understand when I say that I have very little time.”
For a moment, Lestrade thought of his former friend, the late Inspector Felix Windsow, who had passed away from what was variously known as ‘cancer’, ‘the sugar’, or ‘wasting disease’.
“I need you to find someone for me, Mr. Lestrade,” she said. “If you are interested, that is. There is a reward attached to the resolution of my problem, and besides that, I am happy to pay you above your usual fees and expenses.”
Lestrade gulped, trying to imagine the urgency that would have her discussing vulgar money fewer than five minutes into their first meeting. No card. Alone, too upset to give her name in introduction. And now money? What was he getting into?
“I would be pleased to hear your story, madam ...?”
“Doctor. Dr. Emmaline De Noon, of the School of Medicine for Women.”
He blinked, taken aback by this new information. A woman physician? Truly? Lestrade’s brain immediately conjured up images of hungry, shivering female medical students keeping warm with the fires of their zealotry, trying to become the next Elizabeth Garrett Anderson.
“Mrs. De Noon-”
“Doctor De Noon, Inspector,” she corrected him, sharply.
“Right,” said Lestrade. “At any rate, eh, Doctor... you should know that I am no longer in private practice. In fact, I recently rejoined the police force and am awaiting my next assignment.”
“I understand,” she said. “John mentioned those two facts to me, and that is why I am approaching you now, before you accept your new duties.”
Lestrade considered her words for a moment. She did, in fact, have a point. Until he was officially assigned, there was absolutely nothing preventing him from taking on one final, private commission. He had to admit that doing a favor for John Watson as well as replenishing his depleted funds were also motivating factors.
“A reasonable thing to do under the circumstances,” he said. “Please continue, Dr. De Noon.”
She inclined her head slightly in gratitude. “It is my fiancé, sir. I am out of my depth and need help in finding the rest of his remains.”
Lestrade had been a member of the police for quite a long time. During those years he had grown adept at reading and remembering the many salient facts of a case... particularly the terrible elements that one, despite their best efforts, could scarcely forget.
Still, some cases stood out more than others, and this was no exception.
As Dr. Emmaline De Noon completed her sentence, and then reached out to pick up her teacup, Lestrade felt his heart lurch, each of her words emerging slowly but with sustained force.
“You may know of him as Dr. Timon Nowak, part of what you policemen refer to as the Molesey Mystery.”
Chapter VI
1891 or The Present, and Finding George Barrett
The following morning dawned as dark and foul as a murderer’s heart. Rain poured down from the sky like the tears of a widow, each drop falling upon a lonely and unmarked grave.
Lestrade found himself once again hurrying through this terrible deluge, his reliable umbrella and his rubber Mackintosh coat managing to stave off the worst of the storm.
He hadn’t seen much of George Barrett since his invalidation. A cordial nod on the street and a cup of eels on a damp day with a bit of fresh gossip was the long and short of it. Their friendship was allowed to exist now that rank didn’t stand between them. He liked Barrett for being a good man. He respected him for keeping his wits sharp.
When Barrett opened at his knock, Lestrade was astonished at the man’s appearance. Thinner and harder now, but that spark of life still glittered in his blue eyes and the pride remained in his spine even if his leg slumped after him.
“Lestrade!” said Barrett, clearly surprised to see the inspector on his doorstep.
“Barrett,” Lestrade replied with a nod. “Can I have a word?”
“I was just about to sit down to my supper...” said Barrett, not finishing the sentence.
That was clearly not the case, as the former officer appeared to have not had a proper meal in a very long time. It was readily apparent to Lestrade that eel soup could only carry a man so far in terms of health and vitality.
“Why don’t you lock up,” said Lestrade, lightly, “and come with me? I’ll buy us both something to eat. I have some questions for you about one of Windsow’s old cases. D’you still have his note-book?”
“Of course,” Barrett said stoutly.
“Bring it along, please, if you would be so kind.”
Chapter VII
1891 or The Present, and A Recollection of a Case
Lestrade preferred to make business in his favourite pub - the Malmsey Keg-it rarely shut down and was open now, serving breakfast. They were able to find a table in the back of the place, away from the other customers, and se
ated themselves there.
Lestrade watched as Barrett lowered himself into a chair. Pain from the moving pinched his face like a piecrust before he forced it to smooth over. Lord help us from pride, he thought, and resolved to pass a quiet word to Barrett’s children about his health.
“If you would be so kind,” Lestrade said, “I would like to borrow Windsow’s case-book.”
“Certainly,” said Barrett. “May I ask why?”
“In a moment,” replied Lestrade. “But first, you knew the finer details of the murder of Dr. Timon Nowak perhaps better than anyone, other than Inspector Windsow.”
“And Walsh,” said Barrett. “Don’t forget him.”
“Of course not,” said Lestrade, with a shake of his head. “A tragic case.”
“Yes,” said Barrett, glumly, and then he was silent.
“So, Barrett, feel free to order what you like,” said Lestrade. “And while you wait, I would appreciate it greatly if you would be so kind as to recount for me what you recall of the Nowak case.”
“We stopped calling it that a long time before I left the police, you know,” Barrett said. “Back then, we called it “The Molesey Mystery”. Everyone did, actually.”
Lestrade nodded for Barrett to continue.
“On August 4th of 1881,” Barrett said, as if reciting from a police report, “the corpse of a naked, well-nourished white man was found floating in the eddies downstream the bridge at Hampton Court.”
“In a tiny spot called Molesey Park,” added Lestrade.
Barrett nodded. “Correct. The outrage from the people was thick, if you don’t recall, Inspector. Molesey Park had been named after the original Molesey, and they were debating there about whether to welcome cottage hospitals for those too poor or ill to take treatment in London Proper.”
“I remember that, but only vaguely,” said Lestrade. “What was the core of the debate about?”
“That it would bring in undesirable elements, such as the poor and ill who could not take treatment in London Proper.”
“’Twas you and Walsh discovered the corpse, eh?” asked Lestrade, although he already knew the answer. Still, he wished to hear Barrett’s recollections of the events that had taken place in his own words.
“We did,” said Barrett, and closed his eyes for a moment as if remembering that horrible day in excruciating detail. “Davy and I were heading to the canteen after an extra patrol. Was the Anniversary of Gibraltar, as I recall, and the parades were frightful! At any rate, Walsh spied some kiddies along the bank poking at something under the water. I shooed the little ones out of there and Davy just jumped in, thinking to save the poor soul if they might’ve not yet drowned.”
“But it was too late...”
“Aye,” said Barrett, “and long before we got there. The poor, sad bloke had no head, you see? It had been lopped off, and none-too-gently.”
“What happened next?” asked Lestrade.
Before Barrett could answer, the pub keeper came and took their order. After he was gone, Barrett continued his story.
“There was no clothing on the body,” he said. “Took us a minute or two to realize that. The skin was bloated and falling off. Walsh figured the fish had been eating the soft parts. When he said that, I’m ashamed to say that I threw up my lunch right there on the bank.”
“No shame in that,” said Lestrade.
“Later on, we checked up on the case with the Inspector-in-charge, Felix Windsow. Walsh and I had both taken a sort of long-term interest in the whole thing, truth be told. The inspector told us that the corpse been identified as one Dr. Timon Nowak. Seems the body matched the same man who’d gone missing a week or two before. Same height, a similar state of health. Well-respected, too, and wealthy to the edge of disgrace. He was a cottage hospitalier, too.”
“And engaged,” Lestrade said, absently, “to Miss Emmaline De Noon, niece of Westminster’s Consultory Hydrologist, Regnier De Noon.”
“Who also happened to be the loudest voice against cottage hospitals,” finished Barrett. “Inspector Windsow told us all about him.”
“Felix suspected De Noon from the start, did he not?” asked Lestrade.
“Indeed,” replied Barrett. “The Inspector barraged the man with days of repetitious questions. Right hammered at him, and justly so. Wasn’t long before De Noon showed up at the station and confessed, babbling the whole while.”
“So what happened between De Noon and Nowak? Why did De Noon attack him?”
“Over the cottage hospitals, of course. De Noon and Nowak fought like cats and dogs, or so I understand. In his confession, De Noon said he couldn’t remember anything after the fight. And he certainly couldn’t remember removing the late Dr. Nowak’s head, much less doing away with it so thoroughly that no one could find it.”
“Which was attributed to an earlier head injury,” said Lestrade.
“No head, no worries,” said Barrett. “That was the kind of sick joke going ‘round at the time. That’s what we thought, at first - or at least, that’s what everyone wanted, for the whole thing to just... be done.” Barrett sighed. “As it turned out, with Dr. Nowak’s head still missing, the conditions of his will and testament would stay unfulfilled, and so the pressure was still on, at least for a while.”
“Which is where Alexander Sundridge came in?”
“Yes and no,” said Barrett. “It turned out that Sundridge’s involvement started quite a bit earlier, in fact. According to Inspector Windsow, Nowak’s will had been penned by Sundridge decades ago, when Nowak was still a lad. It was iron-clad, don’t you know, and stated that his equity would not be released to his heirs until he was ‘completely buried as a Christian’.”
“I suppose,” said Lestrade, “that according to Sundridge, this was taken to mean that the corpse must be buried with all of its body parts intact.”
“Of course,” Barrett acknowledged. “Which obviously included poor Dr. Nowak’s missing head.” He shook one finger in the air. “Remember, though, Inspector, that it was not as simple as the estate being held hostage, as it were, by a single barrister of questionable motive. Sundridge also held the esteem of the church, and that made all the difference in the world.”
“Which means that as long as Dr. Nowak’s remains are incomplete,” said Lestrade, “then Sundridge can play with his money until time immemorial.”
Just then the pub keeper returned to their table, leaving a plate of eggs and potatoes in front of Barrett and a tankard of John Barleycorn for Lestrade.
As Barrett began to eat - rather bravely considering their topic - Lestrade considered all the facts thus far.
“Tell me,” he said at last, “did Windsow suspect Sundridge of any involvement in the murder?”
“Aye, of course he did,” replied Barrett. “But having proof is a long stretch away from suspicion, as you know all too well.”
“Indeed.”
“The other thing that wasn’t helping Inspector Windsow was De Noon’s head injury,” continued Barrett. “He was prone to daft spells in his head from time to time, you see.” Barrett tapped himself on the temple. “He’d go to sleep sometimes, just like that. When he was awake, though, he’d turn mean as a rabid dog, with no warning at all. Very nasty. Did you go see him?”
“I checked on him with my sources, but he died in Dartmoor last year. I don’t know how the papers missed that. They’re usually the first with all the torrid gossip.”
“Oh, my. Well, he was worthless anyway. Convinced of his own guilt and that was all he could talk about.”
When the two men had finished their respective repasts, Lestrade paid the pub keeper and the two men departed onto the street. Standing there, looking at his old mate, Lestrade was struck by a sudden idea.
“Barrett, I have a proposition for you,” he said. “I
believe I may, with your help, be able to shine some light upon this case and perhaps bring closure to the widow of Dr. Nowak. Would you be interested in a commission to work with me for a time on it all?”
Barrett stuck out his jaw.
“Yes, Inspector Lestrade,” said he. “I do believe that I would be quite interested in doing Mr. Windsow proud.”
Chapter VIII
1891 or The Present, and An Old Case Becomes New Again
Several days passed in which Lestrade was startled at a payment from Miss De Noon. Either she had money to burn or she really did have confidence in his abilities. As soon as he could make the time he went to follow up with Barrett.
“You look tired, man,” said Lestrade, noting the drawn and exhausted Barrett. “When did you last sleep?”
“Lord, I don’t know. I’ve been going over the maps of the area-”
“Maps?” queried Lestrade. “Whatever for? It’s Surrey, not Snowdon!”
“His head has to be somewhere! It’s been some years since I re-read Inspector Windsow’s case-book. So, then I’d forgotten he was certain - perhaps even sure - that Dr. Nowak’s head was hid somewhere on his own estate.”
Lestrade stopped cold. “Is that in his case-book?”
“That and more. See?”
Both men leaned over the open case-book and Barrett traced Windsow’s handwritten script with his index finger.
“ ‘Anything tossed into any puddle in the park winds up at the lock,’ ” he read aloud. “ ‘What with the fish ladders and men stationed to make sure the public doesn’t do anything stupid...’ ”
“It’s clear,” Lestrade interrupted, excitedly, “that Inspector Windsow believed that Dr. Nowak’s head - if it were there in the first place - would have rolled down there by now.”
“And De Noon would have known that, wouldn’t he?” queried Barrett. “He was a hydrologist, after all.”
