The Devil's Due

by Bonnie MacBird

  I removed my scarf and hung up my coat.

  ‘You missed an excellent meal,’ I said. ‘But … how did you instantly know I came from the Snake and Drum?’

  ‘Hmm, let’s see. The tilt of your hat. That speck of mud on your instep. The fading curl of your left moustache.’

  Heffie laughed.

  ‘I am too tired for this, Holmes,’ said I.

  ‘All right. How about this? I can smell that you have been to the Snake and Drum. Your coat bears the distinctive odour of wood-fire, kerosene, cheap gin, and terrible shag, of which the Snake and Drum is redolent. And there is something else on your fine jacket here.’ He moved closer and sniffed the air near me. ‘Hmm … cannabis. Very faint.’

  ‘That … is remarkable!’

  ‘Can o’ what?’ wondered the girl.

  ‘Ganja,’ said Holmes.

  ‘Ewwww, nice!’

  ‘Heffie, you must excuse us now. Please go downstairs. Mrs Hudson has drawn you a bath and there is a bed for you there. I’ll see you get to your assignment in the morning.’

  She finished her whisky, set down the glass and left the room, pausing at the door to give me a final, rude appraisal. ‘Doctor, eh? Useful, I s’pose. I got a toe—’

  ‘Good night, Heffie!’ said Holmes. She departed.

  He turned to me. ‘Watson, I apologize. It was unforgivable of me not to have sent word. Halloa! What’s this? Had I looked closer I would have been able to deduce where you had been by an even more obvious sign!’

  He was staring at my waistcoat. ‘Tell me you were not robbed of that fine watch, Watson?’

  I sighed. There was no fooling the man. ‘Yes, I was.’ But I would never admit that it was by someone whom I mistook for him.

  ‘Let me guess: it was a tall, elderly derelict with a red nose who – Oh! I see there is more to that story! Ha! But I shall leave it. You ventured to that terrible place out of concern for my welfare, and it is churlish of me to give you grief. Sorry, dear friend. Let us attend to more important matters. The list of Luminarians. Mayfair. Did our friendly viscounts provide?’

  ‘There really is no official list. They remembered a few more names, and wrote them down,’ said I, reaching into my pocket and finding … nothing! I began feeling in all of my pockets, with increasing panic. The folded-up list was gone.

  It had vanished along with my new watch!

  Holmes sighed. ‘Bad luck! Watson I am sorry about your experience at the Snake and Drum. But surely you looked at the list? How many names can you recall?’

  ‘I only glanced at it. There were six or eight names on it.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Er, well. Mycroft was definitely on the list. I looked for him.’

  ‘Fine. What of the others?’

  ‘I really did not study it.’

  ‘But later, at Simpson’s. Were you not curious?’

  ‘I was not in a booth. It felt conspicuous, Holmes.’

  ‘Come on, Watson! Were the names in alphabetical order by chance?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any names beginning with B?’

  ‘I am exhausted, Holmes, perhaps in the morning.’

  He growled in frustration. ‘Names, Watson, think!’

  ‘I … yes, there was a Benjamin, a John Benjamin. I don’t know who that is, but that name is somehow familiar.’

  ‘Benjamin! Double suicide. Three weeks ago. Wealthy cloth merchant famous for some very generous pensions he gave to his employees. Hanged himself with a bolt of his own cloth. His wife did the same. It fits. It fits! If it is murder, there is our B!’ He clapped his hands in delight.

  ‘Holmes!’

  ‘A bolt of his own cloth. A playful touch!’

  ‘Playful, Holmes? Sometimes I sense you have a heart of stone.’ Wearily, I took off my jacket. ‘Good night. I am about to fall asleep standing up.’

  But for Holmes, it was as if it were bright morning after a good sleep. Energised, he resumed his pacing.

  ‘Yes, of course. We must get an early start, Watson. Tomorrow I shall deposit Heffie with the headmistress at Lady Eleanor’s school, where she will begin her assignment.’

  ‘Good night.’

  ‘I have every confidence that Lady Eleanor’s young charge Judith will be well looked after. And then we can concentrate on more important things. This is a deadly game for someone. Fascinating!’

  ‘Good night, Holmes. You really should rest.’

  A timid knock came at the door, and Mrs Hudson peeked in, wearing a dressing gown over her nightclothes, her sleeping cap atop her grey curls.

  ‘Mr Holmes? The girl is fast asleep. Couldn’t get her near the bath. But I almost forgot. This letter was dropped off for you late this afternoon by Mr Lestrade. It is Mrs Danforth’s farewell note, which he said you requested?’

  Holmes took it with a quick thanks to Mrs Hudson, shut the door and sat by the fire to read. His face, so animated a moment ago, grew grave. He handed the note to me.

  ‘Before you retire, Watson, take a look at this sad note from the late Mrs Danforth, and tell me if you think it is genuine. I must know if she was a suicide or was murdered.’

  Wearily, I took from him a small, pale pink envelope which was addressed on the outside ‘To whom it may concern’ in a shaky, feminine hand. It read:

  To my friends, family, and to Mr Sherlock Holmes,

  I have just heard that Charles has been released from gaol and knowing him as I do, I beg you to forgive me for choosing this sad way to depart this earth. I cannot prove it but know it was he who killed his father. I have lived with a monster these twelve years and can bear it no longer. My end is unquestionably nigh, be it by his violent hand or my own gentler one. Please forgive me the cowardice for choosing the latter.

  Sincerely,

  Constance Danforth.

  I put the note down. ‘You say she took poison, Holmes? We certainly met up with the fiend she describes. I believe this note is genuine.’

  Holmes nodded and stared into the fire, thinking.

  ‘Mrs Danforth, then, was not murdered. And yet …’ He stood suddenly. ‘Well, dear friend, it has been a long day. I hope you do not regret your choice to visit me while Mary is away. You may be worn to sawdust soon. I wish you good night.’ He smiled.

  As I lay in my bed moments later, I reflected on the wild ride of this visit. In the course of a mere eighteen hours, I’d witnessed an attack, visited St James’s, Fitzrovia, Mayfair and Spitalfields, in audience with the richest, the most connected, and the lowliest that London has to offer. I had already been to places and seen people far from my normal purview. It had been many leagues distant from the routine of examining babies with coughs and bricklayers with cut fingers.

  But despite my utter failure at the Snake and Drum, I felt happier than I had been in more than a year. Mary was right. I had needed a dose of Sherlock Holmes.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Dogged Detective

  I awoke in the morning with the cold November light dimly glowing through the brown striped curtains I remembered so well. Peering out, I saw that it had snowed while I slept, and there was a fine coating of white spread thinly across the yard and clinging to the remaining brown leaves of the plane tree which stood forlornly in the centre. I could feel the deep chill seeping in through the window joints and along the floor. It was unseasonably early for this wintry weather. Dressing quickly, I added my familiar old brown dressing gown which I had neglected to take with me and was still hanging in the armoire.

  Downstairs in our sitting-room, Holmes sat by the fire, a coffee in hand, poring over the newspaper. Except for the cut on his forehead, he was as fresh and relaxed as though he had just enjoyed a week’s holiday. I poured myself a cup of coffee from the silver pot left by Mrs Hudson, then gasped, nearly dropping it in surprise.

  For there, stretched out in front of the fire at Holmes’s feet, was an enormous mound of a black, shaggy dog. It was as though the bearskin rug on which the creature
rested had suddenly come to life.

  At my exclamation, the dog lifted a head the size of two human skulls to regard me alertly with rheumy brown eyes. Its long pink tongue lolled from an open mouth, and I apparently met with its approval, for the tattered flag of a tail beat the floor twice, then sank down again onto the rug beneath it. It lowered its head and shut its eyes once more.

  Holmes looked up at me, enjoying my reaction.

  ‘What the devil is this creature doing here, Holmes?’

  ‘He followed me home last night. Or rather early this morning. It had begun to snow, and I took pity on him.’

  ‘You went out again last night?’

  ‘Mrs Danforth’s suicide note. I agree that it seemed genuine, but there was a small detail that troubled me. Last night, in a brief visit below stairs in the Danforth home, I ascertained with relative ease that the poison Constance Danforth took was supplied unwittingly by a maid, who is now consumed with remorse. The girl related that her mistress insisted on being supplied with a box of rat poison, discreetly, for “a friend’s use”. A second servant corroborated this. I have sadly confirmed that her death was a suicide and not a murder. It was tangentially related to her father-in-law’s murder, but not directly.’

  ‘A terrible way to die. But you have had little sleep, then, for a second night! Let me take a look at that cut.’

  Holmes waved me off. From my vantage point it looked no worse than the night before. ‘What has become of Heffie?’

  ‘I deposited her at the school about an hour ago.’

  ‘Then Holmes, you have had no sleep at all!’

  ‘I am quite invigorated, dear boy! There is something connecting these disparate deaths, and I will find out what it is.’

  He bounded from the chair and over to a large blackboard on wheels, which I had not seen in some time, and which I knew he kept stored in the attic. ‘Look at this!’

  Across the top had been chalked the letters A–H. Below A, C, and D, were the names Anson, Clammory and Danforth, and the words ‘Murder’, ‘Suicides’ and more names. Underneath B was Benjamin with a large ‘?’ below it. E and its successors loomed empty.

  A rectangle inscribed with a D was present on the Anson column and none of the others. It was connected with an arrow to a circle containing my name.

  I pointed. ‘What is that?’

  ‘A Devil Tarot card was found next to Anson’s body. The same as the one handed to you in Hyde Park.’

  ‘A warning, do you think?’ I said. ‘And of what?’

  ‘Possibly a warning. Possibly a tease. Possibly unrelated, though that last is unlikely. It would be advisable to locate the young lady who handed it to you. But in the meantime, I think it means that you and I should be on the alert. No more wandering alone to Spitalfields, Watson.’

  ‘As you did?’

  He smiled at me.

  ‘Holmes, this alphabet theory is not compelling,’ I said. At his sharp look, I regretted the force of this statement. ‘Well, not to me. I mean, how would the killer, if it is the same person, know who all of the Luminarians are? There seems to be no list.’

  ‘Excellent question, Watson, and one I am pondering. Perhaps the killer is a Luminarian himself. And upon receiving this honour, he then asked for or otherwise found out the names of others. Perhaps not all the others, as there is no list, but enough to act upon.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Alternately, the person is a friend or acquaintance of one or more of them, and through gossip or casual social contact – perhaps at the Goodwins’ famous parties – has learned some names. Speaking of which, after your sleep Watson, have you perchance been able to remember any other names you saw on the short list you had in hand?’

  I shook my head, ashamed that I had not committed the list to memory and had allowed a fine meal followed by the evening’s adventure to distract me. Perhaps marriage had dulled my faculties.

  ‘I am sorry, Holmes. I suppose I could return there and ask for it again.’ I would certainly feel a fool, but I would do what was necessary to make up for my carelessness with the list.

  ‘No need. I have sent word to them to send it to us again. Any further impressions gleaned from your visit to the Goodwins?’

  ‘Well, the entire Luminarian business seems like something they regard lightly. They were getting ready for a grand party while I was there yesterday, and despite the imminent threat, they seemed far more concerned with the festivities.’

  ‘Their social life is more than it seems, Watson, and those two cultivate being underestimated. Trust me. The most illustrious and moneyed characters of the capital are counted among their close friends. While they may appear frivolous, they are not. Mycroft informs me that some remarkable back-door political transactions spring from those parties, Watson.’

  ‘Really, Holmes! James Goodwin was smoking cannabis.’

  ‘And I occasionally partake of cocaine. I said, do not underestimate them. Of course, most of London lives in hope for an invitation. Their good will confers instant status.’

  ‘I suppose that being chosen as a Luminarian is regarded as quite an honour. But, by heavens, the hubris of it all! But why would someone want to kill this group? Jealousy?’

  Holmes smiled, and sitting back down, took up his pipe.

  ‘That is what I must discover.’

  ‘Holmes, what good is an honour unless it is made public? I mean, is that not the very definition of an honour?’

  ‘To some, I suppose. Not to me, Watson. The satisfaction of a job well done, the solution of a pretty little puzzle. For me, the game is all, and I do not require public approval.’

  ‘Holmes, you have said this before, and I must disagree. For you, I would say that your work is in the service of justice. And perhaps art. But it is hardly a game.’

  ‘You are partly right, my friend. But the solving of a crime must be, to me, like a game. If I allow my feelings to engage, I lose the edge I need to find the solution. No, it must remain a game.’

  He smiled at my raised eyebrow, then turned serious once more.

  ‘Watson, let us try an experiment. A game if you will. Close your eyes. Try to bring up a clear image of that sheet of paper in your mind’s eye.’

  I did so. The image did not come. ‘I am trying, Holmes,’ I said.

  ‘No, quite literally. Picture it in detail. What colour was the paper? Was it folded? How many times?’

  As a writer, I had trained myself to visualize people, places and events. Some came more clearly than others, of course. But some were blurred as if by a London fog – by time, emotion, or the mysterious workings of the human brain.

  The list remained a blur. I struggled. Finally, I said, ‘The paper was cream coloured with the Goodwin family crest, or what I believe to be the family crest, stamped in gold at the top. The list was written in black ink. There was more than one hand in the list, for some of the names were written by James and some by Andrew Goodwin.’

  ‘Do you know, or can you see the two handwritings?’

  ‘See.’

  ‘Good. Keep your eyes closed, Watson. Now scan down the page. Is Mycroft’s name there?’

  ‘Yes. Actually, I noticed that straight away. I was looking for it.’

  ‘And any other names? Besides Benjamin.’

  I closed my eyes trying again to bring forth the image of that slip of paper, but I simply could not. I shook my head. ‘Too much has happened, Holmes. I am out of practice for this kind of work.’

  The previous day was a tumult of activity, and I had not had my coffee. I stepped carefully around the enormous dog and sat down in the basket chair. A few minutes passed as we drank our coffee in silence, Holmes’s smoke curling around him like a dog circling round its bed.

  A snore came from the living bearskin rug between us.

  ‘You do not plan to keep this dog, do you, Holmes?’

  ‘No, Watson, in fact I have sent Billy to old Sherman in Lambeth.’

  ‘Oh y
es! The man who provided us with Toby, that mongrel with the excellent tracking nose. The very case where I had met my—’

  ‘—your dear Mary. Yes, Watson.’ Holmes sighed. He was happy for my marriage, or professed to be. ‘Sherman will no doubt take in the dog, or he will know someone who would. This is a valuable animal. A Belgian herding breed, if I am not mistaken.’

  The dog snuffled loudly, sneezed, then hauled his ragged and enormous frame clumsily to his feet. He moved in the direction of Holmes, then placed his large head in my friend’s lap. Holmes looked surprised only for a moment, then, pipe in mouth, began to idly scratch the dog behind the ears.

  The dog raised his gigantic head and gave a deep bark so loud the drinks tray rattled on the sideboard. This was followed by the doorbell ringing and an anxious and furious knocking. Mrs Hudson’s alarmed voice was heard and then a pounding of footsteps up the stairs.

  Holmes and I were on our feet in an instant to see the figure of a cloaked man, hat low over his brow, burst into the room in a dead run. He flung the hat from his head and shouted, ‘Hide me!’

  The dog growled and barked again, and the man jumped backward, nearly stumbling over the low Moroccan table by Holmes’s favourite chair. He caught himself before falling and turned to face Holmes. ‘They are coming! Hide me!’

  I regarded with surprise the handsome, tanned face with the trimmed moustache and mocking eyes, now widened in panic. A dubious character, indeed. It was the French detective Jean Vidocq!

  CHAPTER 13

  The Baguette Brigade

  Jean Vidocq was never particularly trustworthy, and wherever this con artist appeared trouble generally followed. But he and Holmes shared a peculiar, wary bond which I did not fully understand.

  ‘Who is after you, Vidocq?’ asked my friend, with a calm bordering on insolence.

  ‘Victor Richard and his gang. The anarchists.’ Vidocq smoothed his hair nervously.

  ‘You know full well that I am working on the case as well.’