by Steve Hayes
Again she felt disappointed. ‘You’d be doing me a favour if you’d accompany me home,’ she said shamelessly. ‘I’m a little shaky after what’s happened.’
He gave her a curious look, for she certainly hadn’t struck him as the shaky type. ‘In that case, ma’am, it’d be my pleasure.’
He helped her into the coach and then got in after her. Prescott closed the door and climbed back on to the driver’s seat. A moment later they heard him cluck and the horses leaned into the harness. With a gentle jolt they started moving forward again through the murky night.
‘Have you been in London long, Mr Howard?’
He was peering out at the foggy streets. His profile, caught whenever a passing streetlamp touched it, showed that he was clearly preoccupied. ‘No, ma’am. Just a few days.’
‘And what brings you to England – business or pleasure?’
When he continued to stare out of the window, she said: ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’
He turned to her. ‘It’s me who should apologize, ma’am. I never was much for talkin’, but since you asked … I’m looking for someone. My kid brother, Hank. He came here a while back and … well, no one’s heard from him since. He’s a wild colt, and I promised Ma I’d try to find him.’
Elaina’s face showed genuine concern. ‘Why, that’s terrible. Is the Yard helping you look for him?’
‘The “Yard”?’
‘Scotland Yard – the police.’
‘Nope. I ain’t involved the police yet, ma’am.’
‘Well, you’ll have to, sooner or later. This is a big city, Mr Howard, and not at all like back home. The population of London alone is about five million. You won’t have much luck looking for one man all by yourself.’
‘Thanks. I’ll, uh, be sure’n talk to ’em.’
Even as she heard the lack of conviction in his tone, an idea hit her. ‘Wait a minute!’ she said. ‘You might not need the police! I may be able to help you myself!’
‘Excuse me, ma’am?’
‘I know a man – a detective. He’s a curious duck, but he knows his trade. I’ll ask him to help you.’
‘I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble, ma’am.’
‘It’s no trouble, Mr Howard. In fact, I’ve been wondering how I could repay you for rescuing me, and this is the perfect way.’
‘But it’s late, and—’
‘Hush,’ she said. ‘I’ve made up my mind. And when you get to know me better, you’ll know that once I do that, there’s no changing it.’ Impulsively she leaned forward and called out of the window: ‘Prescott – 221B Baker Street, if you please!’
CHAPTER 2
An Open Book
Dr John Watson leaned back in his chair beside the dying fire and closed his eyes. He had once been a strongly built man, a little above average height, with a thick neck, a square face and a small moustache. But now, even after a long recuperation, he was still just a shadow of his former athletic self.
He’d gone to Afghanistan as an assistant surgeon with the Army Medical Department and returned a casualty of the battle of Maiwand, where he had been wounded once in the shoulder and once in the leg. His recovery had been slow, and indeed was still ongoing, but upon his return to England he had had the good fortune to fall in with Sherlock Holmes, the world’s first – and, so far as he knew – only consulting detective. This had ensured that he rarely had time to brood over his injuries.
At the moment, however, the persistent throb of his leg wound could no longer be ignored. It seemed to Watson that even the most subtle change in the weather could aggravate it, and he’d had enough of its persistent dull ache for one evening.
He was just reflecting upon how curious it was that the less serious of his two wounds should be the one to cause him so much lasting discomfort when the doorbell rang. He looked at the clock. It was late for visitors, especially on a damp and foggy night like this. But perhaps the visitors were here to see their landlady, Martha Hudson.
A few moments later, there came a discreet rapping at the door, and Watson sighed wearily. Rising, he grasped his cane and limped across to see who it was, the prospect of a hot toddy and a rest in a warm bed vanishing by the second.
Mrs Hudson stood outside, tiny hands clasped before her, her round face dominated by wide blue eyes, her manner hushed and apologetic. ‘I’m sorry to bother you so late, Doctor, but you have visitors. Should I tell them to go away and call again in the morning?’
He was tempted to say yes. It had been a long day and he was exhausted. But before he could reach a decision a figure emerged from the shadows at the head of the stairs and, with a rustle of silks and satins, pushed past the landlady, saying: ‘You’ll do no such thing, Mrs Hudson! I’m sure Dr Watson will be only too happy to receive us.’
Without giving Mrs Hudson a chance to argue, Countess Elaina Montague swept into the large, airy sitting room, gesturing that her companion should follow her. After a moment’s hesitation he did. Watson saw a man of about his own height but slimmer and more muscular, who was clearly ill at ease, turning a black, flat-topped Stetson between his fingers.
Watson squared his shoulders, dismissed Mrs Hudson and then offered the man his hand. The fellow had a strong, firm grip.
‘Mr Howard,’ said Elaina, ‘meet Dr John Watson. Dr Watson – my newfound friend, Mr Thomas Howard.’
Howard nodded a vague acknowledgement, but his attention had already been taken by the eccentric nature of the room. In one corner stood a stool and a chemical-burned workbench. On the other side of the rear window someone had marked out the letters ‘V.R.’ – presumably for Victoria Regina – in what looked like bullet-holes. A sheaf of letters was affixed to the mantelpiece by a jack-knife, and nearby was a human skull and a magnifying glass. On top of the bookshelves in the opposite corner lay a selection of weapons: a serpentine kris from the East, an axe – even a horseshoe and a wax head depicting a stern-faced man with hollow cheeks.
Watson indicated for them both to be seated on the sofa. Though he had no great love for Elaina, he would never be anything less than civil toward her. ‘I fear you may have had a wasted journey, Countess. Holmes is out at the moment.’
‘Off trying to solve yet another riddle?’ she asked playfully.
‘Actually, he’s gone to the theatre.’
‘The theatre?’
‘Well, the music hall, to be precise. What you would call vaudeville in America, Mr Howard. The varieties.’
‘I had no idea Holmes had any interest in popular entertainment,’ said Elaina.
‘Nor did I,’ confessed Watson. ‘But he’s visited practically every music hall in London over the past few weeks. It’s as if he cannot get enough of—’
Before he could finish the sentence they heard the street door close and then the steady tread of someone ascending the seventeen steps to the first floor. ‘I believe you may be in luck after all,’ said Watson, and a few moments later the door opened and Sherlock Holmes stood within its frame.
Although he was dressed formally in a black cutaway coat and matching trousers, he looked more like a vague, ethereal spirit than a man. He was very tall – more than six feet – and lean almost to the point of emaciation. Oiled black hair swept back from a high, pale forehead. Two sharp grey eyes flanked a long, hawk nose. His cheeks were hollow, his mouth thin, jaw square. It was the face of a man who studied all things with equal fervour, a man obsessed with the accumulation of knowledge, no matter how seemingly obscure. It was the face of the man depicted by the wax bust on the bookshelf.
As he stared at Elaina it was difficult to decipher his expression. Holmes had devoted his life to the art of deduction and had little time for the niceties of polite society. Often, Watson thought of him as more machine than man, one who thrived upon challenge and despised inaction. And yet, as Watson observed him now, he saw something all too human in his friend – a wholly uncharacteristic desire within him; a desire for the countess.
Holmes crossed the room, took Elaina’s hand and held it to his thin lips a moment longer than necessary. ‘Countess,’ he said softly. ‘It has been too long since last our paths crossed.’
She smiled, pleased by his flattery. ‘They wouldn’t be crossing now if it hadn’t been for this brave gentleman, who saved my life.’
‘Your life?’ asked Watson.
For the first time Holmes regarded Howard.
‘Yes,’ Elaina said. ‘Singlehandedly, Mr Howard here drove off a gang of cut-throats who were about to rob and kill me.’
‘Then I am indebted to you, sir,’ said Holmes, shaking hands with him.
Howard looked embarrassed. ‘She’s makin’ way too much of it, Mr Holmes. All I did was “persuade” a few weasels that their skins were more important than the lady’s jewels.’
‘Don’t believe him, Holmes,’ Elaina said. ‘He’s being far too modest.’
‘One of the traits of a true gentleman,’ said Holmes, hooking his top hat on the coat rack and smoothing back his hair. ‘Even one who hails from Missouri, lives in the saddle and yet has the good taste to wear custom-tailored suits and hand-tooled boots.’
Howard stared at Holmes, not sure whether he was being complimented or ridiculed.
Elaina said: ‘Don’t be shocked, Mr Howard. Knowing everything about a person after just meeting them is one of Holmes’s party tricks. Tell him how you do it, Holmes.’
Holmes gestured for them to sit on the sofa and then slumped into the fireside chair facing the ‘V. R.’ symbol. ‘Actually, Mr Howard, determining who you are and where you’re from was quite easy. Not only is the cut of your suit clearly American, but your Midwestern accent holds the unmistakable trait of Missouri folk, wherein all the vowels are pronounced as if they were ‘a’ – ‘Missoura’ for instance, instead of ‘Missouri’. So – I put your place of birth and residence as Missouri, though I have yet to train my ear to the subtle inflections which would enable me to pinpoint a particular area.’
‘I’ll save you the trouble,’ Howard said, his tone chilly. ‘I’m from Kearney.’
Elaina suddenly sat up, exclaiming: ‘Really? I’m from Kansas City! No wonder fate threw us together. We’re neighbours!’ She glanced at Holmes. ‘I’m sorry. Please go on guessing.’
‘It is not guesswork, Countess,’ he corrected. ‘It is elementary deduction. To the sufficiently observant, everyone is an open book. Some are more able to “read” them than others.’ He treated Howard to another searching scrutiny. By his expression it was obvious that the man from Missouri disliked being the object of such attention.
‘I perceive, sir, that you are an outdoorsman,’ Holmes continued at last, ‘and that it is uncommonly hot where you come from. You ride a great deal and, like so many of your countrymen, you carry guns, though not at your waist, as is customary in the colonies, but since you came to England, in shoulder-holsters.’
‘Isn’t he marvellous?’ Elaina exclaimed.
‘Marvellous ain’t the word,’ growled Howard. ‘OK – how’d you do it?’
‘I just told you – simple observation. Your complexion tells me that you spend much of your time outdoors. The squint lines around your eyes indicate that you are constantly in the sun, which in turn tells me that you come from a hot climate. The high heels on your boots make walking long distances uncomfortable, but of course are perfectly suited for riding stirrups.’
‘And the shoulder-holsters?’
‘Your suit, Mr Howard. Though custom-tailored, the tightness across your chest suggests that you had it made before you acquired your shoulder-holsters.’ Holmes paused momentarily, then said: ‘Perhaps you acquired them in the belief that the purchasing and carrying of firearms in Great Britain was illegal? It isn’t, you know. One only has to go to the nearest post office and buy a licence.’
‘You’re just a world of information, ain’t you?’
‘No, sir – you are. Your surname, for example, which derives from the Old Norse Haward or Herward, tells me that you have Welsh ancestry. The careful way in which you took your seat just now informs me that you have suffered a chest wound or similar injury in the past, perhaps during your late War of the Secession? It healed several years ago, but can still be aggravated by damp weather, such as that of tonight. I note that you have also spent your life veering from wealth to poverty and back again.’
Howard threw a dark look at Elaina, as if blaming her for bringing him here and subjecting him to what must surely be some kind of sorcery.
‘And this, uh, book,’ he asked belligerently. ‘Does it say what I do for a living?’
‘No, but your hands do. When we shook a moment ago, the calluses told me that you are neither a banker nor an accountant.’
‘Then what am I?’
‘Gentleman farmer? Cattleman, perhaps?’
Howard eyed him narrowly. ‘You know somethin’, mister? You got a strange way of sayin’ a thing. You make it sound halfway between a compliment and an insult, and I ain’t sure I like it.’
‘I meant no offense,’ Holmes replied innocently.
Watson, having already sensed the friction building between the two men, moved quickly to defuse the situation. ‘May I offer you a drink, Mr Howard?’
Howard shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Reckon I’ll be movin’ along.’
‘Oh, no! We’re here now,’ said Elaina. ‘At least let’s tell Holmes the nature of your problem.’
‘He don’t need to know what—’
‘Nonsense.’ Elaina turned to Holmes: ‘Mr Howard’s brother has gone missing and I was hoping you’d help find him.’
‘That may not be possible,’ said Holmes. ‘You are familiar with the recent spate of jewellery thefts, of course?’
‘Of course. I know a number of the victims personally. In fact, I’m holding a little gathering for several of them tomorrow afternoon. I was hoping it would cheer everyone up.’
‘I am presently engaged upon the case,’ Holmes continued. ‘Thus, my time is limited. However, it can do no harm to hear your story, Mr Howard. You may speak freely before Dr Watson, and of course in complete confidence. Your brother came to England and vanished. What brought him here to begin with?’
Howard’s discomfort increased visibly. ‘I’m not sure this is such a good idea, you bein’ busy elsewhere and all. Maybe I’ll just—’
‘Oh, do tell him,’ Elaina urged. ‘If anyone can help, Holmes can.’
‘What brought your brother here to begin with?’ Holmes repeated.
‘What takes a man anywhere?’ Howard replied vaguely. ‘Opportunity. The promise of a better life.’
‘And he did not feel he could find that better life in Missouri?’
‘No.’
‘Was there any particular reason he should feel that way?’
‘Uh-uh.’
‘So he came to England.’
Howard nodded.
‘He didn’t go looking for opportunity in a neighbouring state or territory?’
‘Nope.’
‘Then I suggest he is a fearless and perhaps ambitious man. How old is he, Mr Howard?’
‘About twenty or so.’
‘Did you have an address for him here?’
‘No. He just said he’d write when …’ He made a sudden impatient gesture, adding: ‘Look, I got no idea where he is or how to find him. And for all your powers of observation I doubt you’ll do much better, Mr Holmes, so let’s just leave it at that, OK?’
Holmes considered him for a moment, then smiled and nodded. ‘As you wish. May I suggest, however, that you file details of your, ah, brother with Scotland Yard, and perhaps Mr William Booth’s East London Christian Mission, in Shoreditch.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Howard, rising. ‘Sorry we wasted your time.’
‘My time is never wasted, sir,’ Holmes said, also rising.
Elaina frowned at Howard. ‘Hold on. Let’s not be so hasty. It’s been quite an evening. Maybe we should di
scuss this again tomorrow, when we’re all a bit fresher. Holmes, please … consider yourself invited to my tea party tomorrow. You too, Watson. Mr Howard, you’ll be there, won’t you?’
‘Well, I—’
‘Good,’ she said, cutting him off. ‘That’s settled, then.’
At the door Howard regarded Holmes coolly. ‘One last thing. I can see how you came to your conclusions. But that business about me veering from wealth to poverty an’ back again … that’s got me stumped.’
‘It is quite simple, sir,’ said Holmes. ‘When in funds you had the suit you now wear tailor-made for you. When you lost the third of its four jacket buttons you were so poor that you had to replace it with an odd one – and judging from the amateur quality of the stitching, you sewed it on yourself.’
‘And comin’ back into “funds”?’
‘Simplicity itself, Mr Howard,’ Holmes said with a rare smile. ‘Had you not come into money again, you would not have been able to buy your passage to England.’
CHAPTER 3
The Poacher’s Pocket
In the Poacher’s Pocket, a notorious public house just a stone’s throw from the Pool of London, Blackrat Lynch and his three pals sat at a knife-scarred corner table and commiserated over mugs of ale. The scratches on Blackrat’s craggy face had already excited much raillery from the regulars – ‘What’s’a matter, Blackrat? The old woman givin’ you grief again?’ – and he was in a foul mood.
Around them, by contrast, the pub’s other patrons were thoroughly enjoying themselves. They crowded around tables to play shuffleboard or put ’n’ take, sat on rough-hewn benches and leaned against the bar, while mingled with the constant chatter were great howls of laughter. Occasionally there were cheers and someone broke into slurred song. The smoky air stank of fried fish, cheese and pickles.
‘We should’a rushed ’im,’ said Alfie, wiping his runny nose on his sleeve.
‘Aye,’ O’Leary agreed. ‘Y’know, the more I t’ink about it, the more I t’ink he was bluffin’.’
