by Ian Wright
The Dark Reckoning
By Ian Wright
The Dark Reckoning
First Kindle Edition, August 2013
Copyright © 2013, Ian Wright
All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author.
Use of the Sherlock Holmes characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle by permission of Conan Doyle Estate Ltd., www.conandoyleestate.co.uk.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events, places or organisations is unintentional and entirely coincidental.
This book is dedicated to everyone who offered support and encouragement whilst I was writing it, especially my sister, Jacqui. I thank you all.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 1
The cold December air chilled the fingertips of Sherlock Holmes, as he hurriedly walked along the cobbled streets of London towards Baker Street. As he approached Marble Arch, he noticed that a crowd had gathered just inside Hyde Park. Curiosity, as well as a distinct lack of investigations, led him to walk across Park Lane to determine the reason for such a presence.
Sherlock Holmes was one of the most renowned private detectives in London, and was often called upon to help solves crimes that baffled the police. He was a restless man, 40 years of age, who could not abide idleness. For several weeks there had been no cases that were of sufficient interest to him, causing him to become increasingly depressed and frustrated. His apartment showed signs of his frustrations, being littered with newspapers and records of old cases all over the floor. His landlady had been kept busy trying to tidy up after him, a habit that he found infuriating as nothing was ever where he left it.
Waiting for an approaching carriage to pass, Holmes noticed the panting of its two horses as they cantered by, the heat of their breath causing steam to issue from their nostrils. The driver of the carriage was wrapped in a thick cloak and was wearing his hat low, so that only his eyes and grimy cheeks showed between the garments. He appeared very weather-beaten and Holmes guessed he had worked outside for many years. He seemed impervious to the bitter coldness in the late afternoon air.
Holmes crossed the road, noticing that the street lamps were being ignited. He entered Hyde Park by Cumberland Gate and made his way towards the crowd. Weaving his way through the dense mass of people was no easy task, even for the slim built Holmes. Owing to his height, just short of six feet, he did not have to advance too far into the crowd before he could see over the heads of the onlookers. Several feet in front of where he stood, a wall of policemen shrouded a figure lying perfectly still on the ground. With a strange mixture of frustration and excitement, Holmes pushed himself forwards through the people and made his way towards one of the policemen.
“I’m sorry Sir, but I can’t let you pass. Please move along now,” said the policeman in an authoritative voice.
“Who is in charge here?” snapped Holmes somewhat impatiently, having become somewhat agitated after fighting his way through the crowd.
“Inspector Lestrade,” replied the officer.
“Well, where is he, man?” asked Holmes in a raised voice
“Over there, Sir,” said the officer pointing the inspector out.
“Thank you. Now, will you please let me pass?” said Holmes, pushing his way past the policeman, who immediately tried to restrain him and pull him back. “Lestrade!” shouted Holmes.
Inspector Lestrade glanced over and saw the welcome figure of Sherlock Holmes. “Ah, Holmes, I’m glad you’re here. It’s alright officer, you can let this man pass”. Holmes noticed the strain evident in Inspector Lestrade’s face. He was a shorter man than Holmes and stood 5 feet 7 inches. Holmes did not know his age, but thought him to be in his mid forties. He had dark brown hair that was hidden under a hat. His hair was beginning to turn grey at the temples, as were his rather long sideburns. Although not fat, he did have a potbelly and his nose was always red, indicating that he was a frequent drinker. He had lived in London all his life and was from a working class family, which was evident in his accent.
Lestrade began to speak as the two men walked towards the figure being shielded by the wall of police. “It’s a nasty one, this. I hope you haven’t just eaten anything”.
Holmes quickly smiled his acknowledgement and then looked down at the figure lying on the grass. It was that of a rather stout man wearing very expensive clothing; shoes made of the finest leather, and, beside the body, a cane embossed with a silver handle fashioned in the shape of an Alsatian dog. A cloak made from tweed, and a marriage ring on a chubby purple finger suggested this had been a wealthy man. All this Holmes noticed in an instant, as his eyes were drawn towards the body’s head; but it was not there.
After a few seconds of sickening shock, Holmes composed himself. Regaining his great reasoning powers he wondered why, on such a cold day, this man should be out without gloves on. “Was this crime committed here?” he asked, looking back at Lestrade.
“No, there is evidence to suggest the victim was dragged here,” replied Lestrade, pointing to marks present on the grass. Holmes saw that it was futile to follow the trail since the crowd had trodden it in too much.
“Damn!” he whispered to himself. He stared into the assembled crowd angrily and then looked back at the body. “May I please examine the body, Lestrade?”
“Erm, I suppose so. Just don’t touch anything. You know what the chief can be like,” replied Lestrade, somewhat hesitantly.
Holmes nodded in agreement and knelt down to take a closer look at the decapitation wound. The cut appeared fairly clean and there were two lines visible across the wound, one about half way through the neck and the other just cutting into the spine. This suggested that an instrument such as a meat cleaver had been used to cut off the victim’s head. The angles of the lines were slightly diagonal with the right-hand side, as one looked from the end of the body, being inclined towards the ground. Furthermore, the bottom of the initial cut was about one quarter of an inch further into the neck than the top of the second. Holmes deduced that the murderer must have been right-handed and, owing to the depth attained with each cut, suspected it to be a particularly strong male. The spine itself had been struck several times with the blade but it didn’t appear to have been cut completely through. It appeared as if, after several attempts to cut through it, the murderer had twisted the head violently to snap the spine.
The light was beginning to fade too much for Holmes to continue investigating and nightfall was gradually drawing in. He stood up and, as he did so, noticed that the cloak of the dead man was not damaged, except for a small amount of blood immediately in the area of the wound. Also there was not much blood on the ground, confirming Lestrade’s earlier statement that the murder had been carried out elsewhere. Perhaps the victim had been abducted and held prisoner for some time, thus his cloak was not on his person when he met his end. “Are there any clues as to his identity, Lestrade?” enquired Holmes.
“We think it might be Sir Charles Grey, the Tory politician. He was reported missing a few days ago. Without a head, though, we can’t really be sure that it is him.”
“Yes, I read of his disappearance in the newspapers. Where is the body to be taken?”
“It will be taken to the city morgue. Why do you ask?”
“Oh do come along, Lestrade! You surely don’t imagine t
hat I will decline the opportunity to conduct my own investigation into his murder? I will leave you now, but please be assured I shall be contacting you.”
Holmes smiled, as he turned and walked away in the direction of the trail where the body had been dragged. It proved to be a fruitless venture as the trail had been obliterated by the crowd, many of whom appeared quite desperate to see what had happened. Holmes continued in the same direction, but could not pick up the trail and, after a short while, he gave up his efforts.
Continuing his journey home, Holmes walked briskly along Oxford Street. He looked around him at the horse-drawn carriages scuttling around the streets and all the people walking in different directions, each with their own purpose. He wondered if anyone knew anything, but concluded most were too wrapped up in their own affairs to have noticed much. He saw a tramp begging for money from anyone who passed close by him. Holmes observed that most people simply gave the tramp a disapproving frown and offered him nothing. Holmes thought it possible that the tramp had seen something of what happened in the park. He ventured towards the tramp and offered him a few coins. The tramp immediately gave a toothless smile to Holmes.
“Thank ya, Sir! It…it’s so cold. This’ll pay for me bed tonight. I didn’t much fancy gettin’ meself stuck out ‘ere,” said the tramp, with appreciation.
“I quite understand,” acknowledged Holmes. “Tell me, did you see anything of that awful business inside Hyde Park?”
The tramp suspiciously eyed Holmes and then looked quickly from left to right. “Are you the police?” he asked awkwardly.
“No. My name is Sherlock Holmes and I am a private detective. It would help me if you could tell me anything that you know.”
“Yes Sir. I did see somfin,” added the tramp.
“Go on,” prompted Holmes.
“It was ‘orrible. I saw it. The bloke didn’t ‘ave an ‘ead. And I’ll tell ya somfin else. There was…” The tramp suddenly stopped talking.
“Please continue,” prompted Holmes.
“No! I said too much already.”
Holmes thought for a moment and then removed a pound note from his wallet. He held it out to the tramp, who made a sudden grab for it. Holmes quickly withdrew his hand and looked the tramp in the eye.
The tramp studied the face staring at him. It was rather long and thin in appearance, with a slightly prominent nose. It was a very distinguished face and gave the impression that its owner was a man of great intelligence. The eyes were dark and piercing. They were staring at him in the most uncompromising manner and it made him feel uncomfortable. The thin lips slowly broke into a smile and the detective started to speak. “Tell me what you know and I shall give you this pound note.”
“What? Really? You ain’t jus’ kiddin’ me?” asked the tramp, his eyes wide with anticipation.
“Of course I’m not. Now please, I implore you. Tell me what you know,” replied Holmes.
The tramp again looked left and right, as he considered the offer being presented to him. It didn’t take long. “Well Guv, it’s like this. I saw this coach go past. Posh one it was. Anyway, I watched it go up the road an’ in the park gates. I ‘ad a walk up, like, to see if it ‘ad stopped.”
The tramp paused and spat onto the pavement. “It ‘ad stopped, so I went up to it to see if I could beg a few pennies, like. Anyway, I catched up wiv’ it and saw someone was in it. The bloke inside said I could ‘ave ten shillings if I ‘elped the driver move this sack that was inside. Bloody ‘eavy it was too. So we moves it out of the coach and onto the grass. The bloke pays me an’ tells me to clear off.”
“What happened next?” asked Holmes.
“Well, I walked off like the bloke said, but I didn’t clear right off, no Sir! I hid behind this tree and watched ‘em. There was two of ‘em and they made out they was working on a bush, like they was trimmin’ it. They was doin’ that for a long time until no-one was about.” The tramp stopped talking and looked down at his feet.
“So, what did they do when they believed there was nobody else about?” asked Holmes, now genuinely intrigued by the tramp’s story.
“They dragged the sack about 20 yards, maybe. Then they opened it wiv a knife and tipped it over, and…” The tramp paused, looked at Holmes and then continued, “So, they tipped it over and a body fell out! It was a dead bloke!”
Holmes remained silent for a moment, before asking, “Did you see what these two men looked like?”
“No Sir, it’s me eyes. They ain’t what they was.”
“Were they well spoken?”
“One of ‘em was; the one that gave me the ten shillings, but the driver never spoke.”
“Can you describe anything about them to me?”
“Not much. Me eyes really ain’t good. The driver was big, really big and very strong. The other one ‘ad ‘is coat done up tight and ‘is hat pulled down low, so I didn’t get much of a look at ‘im. He stayed in the carriage while I ‘elped the driver move the sack.”
“I see,” said Holmes thoughtfully. “What time did all this happen?”
“I can’t tell the time, Guv. It weren’t long ago. In between when the clock struck three times and four times.”
“Thank you for your help,” said Holmes thoughtfully. “Here is your pound note. Oh, by the way, you don’t still happen to have the ten shillings, do you?”
“No, Guv.”
“Never mind. Once again, thank you for your help. Goodbye.”
“Cheers, Guv.”
Holmes left the tramp and continued his journey to Baker Street, where he rented an apartment. He was glad to leave the tramp, whose smell had been overwhelming.
It was almost dark as Holmes drew close to Baker Street, the skyline of buildings and treetops were silhouetted against a dark blue sky. There were thousands of stars visible, like bright glittering speckles in a vast expanse of indigo. A few wispy clouds looked like ghosts haunting the moon, being gently illuminated by its glow.
The bright warm glow of gas street lamps was diffused by the frostiness in the night air. In the street there was a fresh pile of horse manure, sending ribbons of steam up into the cold atmosphere. A man walked across the street, gazing into the irresistible light of an upstairs window; hoping to catch a glimpse of clandestine activities within. With his gaze firmly fixed on the window, the heel of his foot landed heavily in the manure. The man’s foot slid a little, causing him to stumble, and he quickly looked around hoping that nobody had seen him.
Holmes saw what happened and tried to suppress his mirth, as he didn’t want the unfortunate chap to see him laughing. He walked passed the man, who was trying to look as dignified as possible, as if nothing had happened. Holmes had to bite his lip to stop himself from bursting out laughing as he walked by. The man wiped his shoe on the curb and then began to follow Holmes, until turning off into a side street.
It was from a side street that Holmes heard a sarcastic, mocking voice say, “The game’s a head, Mr. Holmes!”
Holmes turned suddenly, staring into the darkness from whence the voice came. He ventured into the side street and saw a figure run into the labyrinth of streets and alleys, rendering pursuit difficult. Holmes gave chase, but the figure had a substantial head start. Holmes, being a tall man with a long stride, began to catch up with the figure, who kept turning into different side streets and alleys. Holmes felt his heart pounding but saw his prey getting closer, although he was still quite a long way ahead. Every time he turned a corner, Holmes lost sight of him for a short while.
The figure turned into an alley and Holmes followed. The alley split into two and, as Holmes reached the split, he stopped to see which way the figure had gone. There was a figure running from him in both directions. Instant confusion caused Holmes to pause, not knowing which person to pursue, until both had disappeared into the night.
“Damn it!” growled Holmes under his breath. He made his way back to Baker Street, as he recalled the words ‘The game’s a head’. The voice w
as gruff, that of a male. It had been spoken with a slight cockney accent, which had seemed laboured, as though false. Perhaps this man knew something of the decapitated body. If so, why should he associate Holmes with it?
Holmes arrived at 221b Baker Street looking somewhat perplexed. He stood on the doorstep fumbling around in his pockets for his keys, which he eventually discovered and promptly dropped onto the step, as his fingers had become so cold. The door was opened from within by a small, tubby woman, about sixty years of age. Her silver grey hair caught the light shining from the porch. Her round face looked puzzled as she stared at the man stooped down in front of her. She spoke with a faint Scottish accent, “Aye, I thought I heard you fumbling. Whatever are you doing, Mr. Holmes?”
“I’m looking for my keys, Mrs. Hudson. Ah! Here they are. Good evening Mrs. Hudson,” said Holmes standing up and smiling. He looked at the kind face of Mrs. Hudson, which seemed somewhat worried. She waved her arm to beckon him in. “Well come in out of the cold, Mr. Holmes. Are you hungry?”
“I am starving, Mrs. Hudson!” exclaimed Holmes. “I have been looking forward to sampling some of your delicious cooking.”
The worried look on Mrs. Hudson’s face dissolved into a smile, as she listened to the rather unexpected compliment about her cooking. “Whatever are we going to do with you, eh? I’ll cook you something up, Mr. Holmes, and bring it to you shortly.”
Holmes stepped through the doorway into the entrance hall. He flashed a smile at his landlady and responded, “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I don’t know how I would ever manage without you.”
The great detective quickly ascended the stairs, barely noticing the décor of the hall, which consisted of a very expensive carpet plus two Indian rugs placed along its length. The walls were covered in a deep red paper patterned tastefully with gold leaf. Several paintings lined the walls, as well as an ornately framed mirror close to the main door. There were two oak cabinets, upon one of which stood a clock, its pendulum swinging in perpetual motion. The glass doors of the cabinets displayed several ornaments, collected from around the world. Just inside the front door stood a hat and cloak stand that Holmes never made use of.
