I drew the offending paper from the table and sat opposite him in my old chair. ‘Shall I read it aloud?’ I asked.
‘No, thank you. I have tasted those bitter spirits an hour ago.’
I turned my eyes to the article and finished it with increasing revulsion. I looked up. Holmes was lighting a second cigarette to accompany his coffee.
‘What a ghastly business, this Sebastian Danforth murder!’ said I. ‘A well-respected MP and esteemed philanthropist who made his fortune in paper, stabbed sixteen times with a dull letter opener by his own son!’
‘Seventeen times. And yes, a son did it.’
‘This article says you named the wrong person.’ I pointed to the fourth paragraph and read aloud ‘“The erroneous evidence provided by that deranged poseur Sherlock Holmes” – “deranged poseur”, great heavens!’
‘Your indignation should be directed at the word “erroneous”, Watson, not “deranged poseur”. My evidence was flawless and damning. The eldest son Charles Danforth was clearly the culprit. There were a number of indications, but a tiny splatter of blood on the murderer’s watch chain was conclusive.’
‘Well, this Titus Billings fellow disagrees vehemently. Why? And who is he?’
‘Billings is an unknown quantity, late of the foreign office and has been given some kind of sovereignty over at the Yard that I cannot fathom,’ he remarked casually – then vigorously exhaled a plume of smoke. I noted his foot tapping silently.
‘Tell me of the case, Holmes.’
Holmes leaned back in his chair. ‘This murderous son, Charles Danforth, who was initially gaoled on my evidence, believed his father had suddenly written him out of his will. Charles was already known to be unstable, and upon hearing this news – false, as it turns out – a shouting match ensued, with the son cursing like a fiend at his father. Shortly after, the old man was discovered, expiring from multiple stab wounds. Upon my evidence, Charles was arrested, but “new evidence”, to which I was not privy, was submitted, supposedly implicating Sebastian Danforth’s younger son. As of last night, Charles was running free. His younger brother – quite innocent – was charged with the crime and waits in gaol. But it will all be set right soon.’
‘I should hope so,’ said I, ‘if nothing more than to clear your name.’
‘My reputation is nothing in the grand scheme of things,’ said Holmes. ‘But this gross error allowed a monster to roam free throughout London last night.’
I was astonished at this last. ‘It is unlike you, Holmes, to be sleeping late when there are such doings afoot.’
Mrs Hudson entered with a tray of sandwiches. ‘Mr Holmes has been in his bed for less than two hours, Doctor.’ Turning to her lodger, she remonstrated, ‘You endanger your health, Mr Holmes, with all this gallivanting about at night.’
She poured me a coffee without asking. Handing it to me, she added, ‘Just see how tired he is!’
Holmes sighed. ‘I located the villain and communicated his whereabouts to Inspector Lestrade some four hours ago. This worthy endeavour involved a rather dangerous chase at the docks, and a visit to a brothel in the guise of a doctor.’
‘Remarkable! I take back my remonstrance. Apologies, Holmes.’
He smiled, but the smile dropped as he added, ‘I have had to proceed unofficially, as I was blocked from the case by this new man, Billings. But Lestrade has the facts in hand now, and no doubt the murderer as well. I am confident he will see things through to conviction.’
Once more my friend had brought justice to bear, while giving all credit to the local police. His selflessness was one of the things about him I most admired.
‘Holmes, what a remarkable night’s work. You are to be congratulated! Perhaps you may want to rest. If so, I am happy to stay and read until you arise. We might enjoy a meal out later?’
‘If you wish, Watson. But I shall first pay a visit to the murderer’s rather delicate wife. Constance Danforth will surely be relieved at her husband’s capture. I interviewed them both, separately of course, and perceived that she was terrified of him. Although she would not admit it, I saw evidence of burns along her arms, as if from a cigarette.’
‘Good God!’
Holmes got up and began to stir the embers of the fire, which had nearly gone out.
‘While one cannot resurrect her late father-in-law, I am convinced that this investigation will at least serve to save the life of that innocent young woman. How much time have you free?’
‘A fortnight. Mary has gone—’
‘Splendid! Your room is vacant, should you care to stay.’
He began to add coals to the dwindling fire. I found myself uncommonly pleased and surprised at the extremity of my emotion.
‘I shall retrieve my luggage, then—’ I began, when a sudden bang drew my eyes to the door, and a heavyset, muscular man of about thirty-five exploded into the room.
CHAPTER 3
Attack!
My first impression was of a whirling black coat and silk hat, and a silver-tipped walking stick. But it was the man’s reddened face – wild-eyed with fury and venom, his eyes nearly popping – that froze me in alarm. Spotting my friend kneeling by the fire, the intruder crossed the room in three bounding steps, stick raised to strike.
I had only time to cry out, ‘Holmes!’
Just as the fiend was about to smite my friend with what threatened to be a fatal blow, Holmes leapt up, and with the grace of the fencing master he was, whirled and blocked the descending stick with the fireplace poker in his left hand. It clanged like a church bell. In one continuous move, Holmes dealt a hard right to the man’s jaw. There was a sharp crack as his fist connected, and the strapping fellow dropped like a stone onto the bear rug in front of the fire. There he lay still, face down and pressed against the great beast’s grinning countenance.
It was as if Holmes had eyes in the back of his own head, so smooth had been his remarkable defence. He now stood, gazing calmly at his attacker. With one slippered foot, he nudged the shoulder of the unconscious man, rolling him onto his back.
‘Charles Danforth,’ he remarked, as though commenting on some fruit selection at an outdoor market. ‘Truly one of the most vicious murderers London has seen in some time.’ Holmes looked up at me. ‘It took tremendous strength and rage to kill his father with a dull letter opener, Watson. A ghastly way to bring about an end.’ He rubbed his forehead tiredly. ‘Though I did think Lestrade would have had him in custody by now.’
Just then the wiry little police detective and two constables burst through the door, Mrs Hudson behind them.
‘Mr Holmes! Are you all right?’ cried Lestrade. Spotting the man on the floor, the policeman exhaled in relief. ‘Well, of course you are, sir. He slipped us once, but we got onto his intentions, and it was a race to your house. If only I had come in time!’
‘Yes, well, you are here now,’ said Holmes. ‘This man’s intemperate attack, Lestrade, can only bolster your case.’
‘Oh yes, Mr Holmes. No question. Take him away, boys.’
Lestrade’s constables hoisted the unconscious form of Charles Danforth and conveyed him out the door.
Lestrade turned to Holmes. ‘Excellent work, Mr Holmes, and once again the Yard is grateful to you. And between us, sir, I am pleased that you, rather than Mr Billings, have brought the villain to heel. I will make sure that everyone knows.’
‘Please do not do so, Lestrade. I wish you to take the credit.’
‘But Mr Holmes, I—’
‘I must insist.’
Lestrade looked relieved. ‘As you see fit, Mr Holmes. You were right about it all, including his poor wife, may she rest in peace. True about the burns on her arms. Cigarette, I would say. Oh … Charles Danforth is a beast!’
Holmes had frozen in horror. ‘His wife? Dead?’
Lestrade nodded wearily.
My friend was galvanized. ‘How did she die? I advised you to post a guard to Constance Danforth’s house the moment I heard o
f this man’s release! Did you fail to do so?’
Lestrade shook his head. ‘We followed your instructions, Mr Holmes, and posted a guard directly. She was alive when we did so. ’Tweren’t her husband, though. She killed herself, the poor little dear, thinking her husband had gotten away with murder and would be back.’
‘When? How?’
‘Naught we could have done. Found by her maid last night. I was informed just after I saw you a few hours ago. That would make it perhaps around midnight?’
‘How, I ask?’
‘Poison. There was a note.’
‘I must see it.’
‘I’ll have it brought to you straight away.’
In a moment, the police had departed with the unconscious criminal. I closed the door behind them and turned my attention to my friend. Holmes had sunk motionless in the basket chair, head in his hands.
This reaction was far more than the sudden collapse of energy I had witnessed often at the end of a challenging case. The woman’s suicide had hit him hard; clearly he had been unprepared for it.
I sat opposite him and waited.
‘Holmes?’ I whispered after some minutes had passed. ‘You asked for her to be guarded. What more could you have done? Surely she felt safe with police protection.’
‘I should have gone there myself.’
‘You could not have predicted.’
‘She was delicate. Frightened. Despairing. She had loved her father-in-law deeply, and he had been, I inferred, her protector.’
‘You are a detective, not an alienist. Or a fortune-teller. How could you have foreseen a suicide?’
Holmes did not answer.
‘Instead, you went after the brute and succeeded in locating him.’
Holmes nodded but said nothing, sinking further into black rumination.
After a few minutes, I informed him that I’d return in an hour with my things for an extended stay, and that I expected to entice him to a walk or a meal if he was not sleeping off the effects of the night. ‘Doctor’s orders, Holmes. Whatever lies ahead, it is time for recovery, not remonstrance.’
He said nothing, and I left, determined to return as quickly as possible.
CHAPTER 4
Devil and Hyde
An hour later, I returned. The rain had abated for the first time in days, and I convinced my friend that a ramble in Hyde Park would offer refreshment. We usually frequented Regent’s Park but today I suggested a change of scenery.
We set off at a brisk pace and were soon strolling in the southern end of the park along the Serpentine. I hoped this serene, tree-lined vista would soothe my companion’s jangled nerves. Who knew how long we might enjoy the bright sunlight, with rainclouds scudding across the sky. The chill was bracing.
I glanced at his thin figure, bundled in a long black overcoat and blue scarf, his collar turned up for warmth, as he walked beside me in silence, head down. I had forgotten the intensity of those black clouds which periodically rolled in to darken his outlook. He seemed oblivious to the gleaming waterway and the brilliant golds and oranges of the foliage.
‘Holmes,’ I ventured. ‘What of a dinner tonight at Simpson’s? Some roast beef, your favourite, followed by perhaps an opera? Faust, by some French composer, is on just now.’
‘The composer is Charles Gounod – and I have seen it already. Watson, you despise opera. I am not in the humour for conversation. Is it not enough that I agreed to accompany you on this pointless meandering?’
‘It is hardly pointless,’ said I.
‘Then what is the point?’ he asked crossly.
‘The point is to breathe, to take in nature, and to reset the mind. Look at those trees!’
Above us the canopy of golds, greens and hints of orange glowed like stained glass, sparkling intermittently as the bright sun peeked through.
He glanced up at the sky. ‘It will rain again soon. Let us return to Baker Street. I neglected to bring my umbrella.’
He turned left and headed sharply north, in the direction of Speakers’ Corner. We had been out for less than an hour.
‘Holmes, shall we not concentrate on the good news? Those Queen’s honours under discussion? Not a knighthood, do you think?’
It was as though I’d thrown vitriol on his favourite coat. ‘Watson! You know me better than that!’ His vehemence surprised me.
‘It is one thing to refrain from seeking accolades, but can you not at least appreciate them when they are offered sincerely?’ I said. ‘Surely this would bring in more clientele.’
‘Anonymity better serves my work. That journalist simply needed a story,’ he said bitterly. ‘Today I am reviled. Neither notice means anything.’
‘Well, what of this Gabriel Zanders fellow? I am genuinely concerned, Holmes.’
‘He is creative, to be sure. He has made it his business to vilify me, alternately deriding my abilities, and ascribing to them some dark origins.’
‘Dark origins? But this is laughable, Holmes!’
‘To the rational, it is laughable.’
‘What does he mean, dark origins?’
‘To the gullible among his readers, and those are the majority, he implies my powers are otherworldly, devilish. For his more educated readers, he implies that I have deep ties to the criminal community. Either explanation is apparently easier to swallow than my use of scientific method, keen observation and hard work.’
‘Indeed. And the occasional flash of intuition, Holmes.’
‘One cannot count on that. In any case, Zanders is to be ignored. Even if he is having me followed. As indeed he is, at this very moment.’ He nodded behind us.
I looked about but saw no one.
Holmes stalked on. I had difficulty keeping up. While notorious for not caring about public opinion, Holmes knew better than to inflame a reporter. Dark clouds had moved in rapidly to blacken the sky, and no less the mood of my friend. He scowled and picked up his already furious pace.
‘Are you trying to shake him?’ I asked, referring to his supposed tail.
‘That will be difficult in the park. Just to exhaust him, perhaps.’
‘Well, you are exhausting me!’
We continued a moment in silence. I was growing a bit winded.
‘You are out of training, Watson.’ He picked up his pace as if to challenge me further. ‘Rather more tiresome than Zanders is this fool Titus Billings at Scotland Yard!’
‘He does have some peculiar notions,’ I offered. ‘Slow down, please. In any case, you enjoy a challenge, Holmes.’
He said nothing, and we continued in silence. He looked no less grim. The walk was not having the effect I had hoped.
‘Holmes, perhaps I join you at an inconvenient time.’
‘All I need is an interesting case, and the freedom to pursue it unimpeded!’ he exclaimed. ‘Nothing more!’ He glanced my way again and, with a look of contrition, added, ‘I am sorry, dear fellow. No, you are not inconvenient. Rather, in fact, most welcome. I might find bad humour overtaking me if you were not here.’
‘Bad humour? You?’ I laughed. Holmes favoured me with one of his quick smiles. We proceeded in silence. Our relative peace did not last long. As we drew nearer to the northern end of Hyde Park, I began to discern the sound of a crowd, chanting something unintelligible in unison. We approached the fabled Speakers’ Corner, and a loud and melodious voice pierced the chill November air, followed by another unison crowd response.
We came upon a makeshift dais of several wooden boxes on which stood a tall, muscular figure garbed in the long black coat, wide-brimmed hat, and white collar of a pastor. His was a handsome face, rather more sun-darkened than one associates with a London man of the cloth (but perhaps he had served his church in southern climes, I thought). Despite his sober clothing, there was something of the salesman to the fellow.
His words enthralled a highly animated crowd of nearly one hundred people. ‘We must give up our vanity, give up our greed, give up our lust,’ he exhorted.
‘Because the Devil is always near. We must be on the lookout. For the Devil walks among us. Who walks among us?’
‘The Devil walks among us,’ responded the crowd.
‘Who walks among us?’ he shouted.
‘The Devil walks among us!’ the group responded, louder this time. I paused to listen, fascinated with the hypnotic effect this man was having upon the crowd. ‘We must be on our guard,’ insisted the object of their attention. ‘We must seek him out and destroy him. Frighten him with your voices. Louder now! Where does the Devil walk?’
‘The Devil walks among us!’ shouted the crowd.
This must be the kind of ‘tent preacher’ I had read of, roaming the American South. A rabble-rouser, to my mind.
Holmes stiffened and I followed his gaze to a garishly dressed young man, clean-shaven, with slicked-back hair and an eager, hungry face. He had arrived on the periphery of the crowd opposite us, scanning the scene. As I watched, he took out a small notebook and pen. He glanced our way.
‘Holmes, is that—?’
‘Zanders? Yes.’ Holmes turned to regard the speaker with a strange expression, perhaps irony. He shrugged. ‘Come along, Watson, we burn daylight.’
‘Look for him always. And what must we be?’ cried the speaker.
‘On our guard!’ shouted the crowd.
I could not tear myself away. Something about this scene and this speaker utterly fascinated me. I grasped Holmes’s arm. ‘Look at those white lines around his fingers! Many rings, I should think. What preacher would adorn himself so?’ I felt sure Holmes would compliment me on my keen observation.
‘None, Watson. His name is James Fardwinkle and he runs a pickpocketing ring out of Holborn. I have had him arrested twice, but he is something of a greased hog. The police cannot take hold. Let us move along.’
I laughed. ‘Indeed! Look—!’ A young boy wove through the crowds, pausing to artfully extract a billfold from a pocket. He began to approach us but then, noting my challenging stare, he changed course. In a moment, he dipped into a woman’s reticule, removing several pound notes.
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