“All right,” said Screamer. “I’ll go with you.”
They went out and down a flight of rickety stairs. Under the Wiggins’s rooms and taking up most of that side of the courtyard was a stable. A sign over the open door said DINGELL’S LIVERY, and sitting on a nail keg in front of it and mending a harness was a stout, red-faced man. He nodded to Screamer as they went by. Andrew hesitated, then on an impulse went over to him.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “Could you use a boy to help out here?”
“What makes you think I need a boy?”
“I just thought I’d ask.”
The man looked him up and down.
“Do you know horses?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How?”
“I used to help out in a blacksmith’s shop in Cornwall.”
In a sense, it was true. When he had stopped by at Trefethen’s, he had not only worked the bellows at the forge but had helped out with the horses, too. And he did like them.
The man grunted skeptically. Putting down the harness, he jerked his head at Andrew and led the way into the stable. There was a bony, black horse in one of the stalls.
“Bring that one out,” he said.
“Wait a minute,” said Screamer. “Isn’t he the mean one?”
“So? He’s got to be handled, ain’t he?” Then to Andrew, “Well?”
“Yes, sir.”
He stepped into the stall, and the horse stamped his hoofs and turned his head, the white of his eyes showing.
“Easy, boy,” said Andrew soothingly, putting his hand on the horse’s flank. He whistled softly through his teeth in the way he had learned from Trefethen and worked his way in between the horse and the side of the stall. There was a raw place on the horse’s shoulder, and he was careful not to touch it. He stroked the horse’s head sympathetically, untied the halter and backed him out.
“He’s got a bad harness gall,” he said, pointing to the sore.
“Why do you think he’s here instead of out pulling a cab?” said the man. “What’s your name?”
Andrew hesitated. He didn’t know if the cabby with the broken nose was still looking for him. Somehow he doubted it. But even if he was, it was unlikely that he’d recognize him in the clothes he was wearing. On the other hand, he had known his name. And if he should come around this neighborhood asking for him …
With her usual quickness Screamer guessed what was troubling him and did something about it.
“His name’s Jack,” she said. “He’s my cousin.”
“I’m Lem Dingell. As it happens, my regular boy is sick, and I can use someone to help out until he gets back. It’s hard work. Besides helping with the horses, you’ll do all the mucking out. But I’ll pay ninepence a day.”
“Ninepence?” said Screamer. “You pay Harry a bob!”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he told me.”
Dingell glowered at her, then turned back to Andrew.
“All right. I’ll give you a bob, too. Be here at six tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
“A bob a day,” said Screamer as they started across the courtyard. “That’s as much as Sam makes, except when he’s working for Mr. Holmes. What are you going to do with it?”
“What do you think? I wasn’t sure I’d find anything—at least not this fast—but I wasn’t going to stay with you if I couldn’t help out.”
“You mean you’re going to give it to Mum?”
“Of course.”
“That’s what I thought, but I wanted to make sure.” A rapt expression came over her face. “Lumme! You know what that means? With an extra bob a day we can have meat twice a week.”
6
Meeting on King Street
“I didn’t realize that you were interested in Oriental art,” said Watson.
“Homo sum” said Holmes. “Humani nil a me alienum puto.”
“That’s quite true. Nothing does seem alien to you. Still, Oriental art …”
“As usual, you give me too much credit. I neither know nor am I interested in all forms of Oriental art. But I am interested in netsuke.”
“Chinese carvings, aren’t they?”
“Japanese. Very human as well as imaginative. Used to hang things from a man’s sash. I’ll tell you more about them when we get inside.”
They had turned into King Street from St. James and had almost reached Christie and Manson’s Auction Rooms when a tall, fair man in a tweed suit came out.
“Lytell!” called Holmes. Then, as the man turned and came toward them with a smile, “Though I suppose I should now say ‘My Lord’ or ‘Your Lordship’.”
“You should not. I’m still not used to it, and I don’t like it. Please keep it Lytell.”
“As you wish.”
“It’s nice to see you again, Holmes. You too, Dr. Watson. You’ve both been very much on my mind, and I’ve been rather expecting to hear from you.”
“About what?” asked Holmes.
“Well, it’s been almost a fortnight since I came to see you. I thought one or both of you would send me a bill.”
“We did nothing to warrant sending you a bill.”
“I disagree. You did a great deal. You went to see Dr. Harvey Moore, ascertained the facts concerning my father’s death and reassured me about it.”
“We were happy to do it,” said Watson. “Have you had any more attacks since then?”
“No, doctor. I haven’t. So I saw no need to consult a specialist in nervous disorders as you suggested.”
“Very sensible,” said Holmes. “One of the best ways to stay well is to avoid doctors. We saw you come out of Christie and Manson’s. Were you at the viewing?”
“You mean for the auction tomorrow? No, I had other business there. I’ve just completed arrangements with them to sell some paintings.”
“Family paintings?”
“In a sense. One of them is the Reynolds portrait of Lady Lydia. The others are ones my father bought many years ago. A Carvaggio, a Rubens and a Constable. The old boy did have rather good taste. Or good advice.”
“It certainly sounds like it. But why are you doing it?”
“Because I have to. While the estate is quite large, there doesn’t seem to be very much ready cash, and I need quite a bit for the death duties and for repairs.”
“At Lowther Hall?”
“No, no. I don’t care about that. I’ll probably close the place up. But the tenants’ cottages are in shocking shape—leaking roofs, cracked and crumbling walls—I’m afraid my father was a rather typical landlord in that respect, and I want to have them all fixed up.”
“Very estimable of you.”
“Not at all. My father seemed to feel very little responsibility towards the tenants, but I feel a great deal.”
“Still, to sell paintings that have been in the family for some time …”
“I know. I don’t like the idea, but it seemed preferable to selling off any of the land. I sent a cable to my younger brother in the United States asking him how he felt about it, and I just received an answer telling me to go ahead, so I did.”
“I see.”
“Look, since neither of you has sent me a bill and apparently don’t intend to, can I take you both out to dinner and perhaps the theatre afterward?”
“It’s very kind of you, but I’m afraid we can’t make it tonight. We’re going to Sarasate’s concert at St. James Hall.”
“Oh. Well, I’m going down to Norby Cross tomorrow with a photographer. Christie and Manson want photographs of the paintings for their catalogue. But could we make it when I get back?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Splendid! I’ll be back on Friday, get in touch with you then.” And shaking hands with both of them, he went off up King Street.
“Well, I must say that a title doesn’t seem to have changed him any,” said Watson.
“I didn’t expect it would,” said Holmes
. “He’s a thoroughly decent chap.”
“Yes, he is. Still, I wish he had consulted someone about that attack of his. Even though he hasn’t had another one, I don’t like the fact that it was never diagnosed or explained.”
“But the explanation for it is obvious,” said Holmes in his most offhand way. “He was drugged.”
Watson stared at him.
“Drugged? With what? Neither cannibis nor opium would have made him act the way he did.”
“They’re not the only drugs in the pharmacopoeia. What about peyote?”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Your interests do not run as far afield as mine. It’s made from the button of a particular kind of cactus and is much used by Mexican and American Indian medicine men. It causes hallucinations, loss of the time sense and sometimes acute anxiety—all the symptoms that Lytell described when he came to see us.”
Watson shook his head.
“Holmes, you never cease to amaze me!”
“Because I happen to be familiar with a drug that you don’t know?”
“For many reasons. But who could have given him the drug? And why?”
“I can always count on you to ask the pertinent questions,” said Holmes with a smile. “However, I’m afraid I can’t answer them. Not yet.”
“But you have some ideas?”
“I always have ideas. But I don’t base my conclusions on them or on speculations, but on facts. And since we don’t have enough of them at the moment to warrant anything but a theory, we shall have to be patient.”
7
Two More Cases for Holmes
“If there are any more, I think I probably will be,” said Holmes, rubbing some rosin on his bow.
“It would certainly make sense,” said Watson. “I can’t think of anyone …” He dropped the newspaper and stared at Holmes. “You probably will be what?”
“Approached by the authorities on last night’s bombing.”
“How on earth did you know that’s what I was thinking about?”
Holmes smiled.
“You know my methods, Watson.”
“Yes, I do, but … Are you saying you read my mind again—followed my thoughts—merely by observing me?”
“It would appear so, would it not?”
“But how?”
“You were properly shocked when we heard about it last night, commented on the fact that it was so close to us, and wondered about the details. My assumption was that that was the first thing you read when you picked up the paper.”
“That’s correct.”
“You then glanced at your bag, and it seemed fairly clear to me that you were thinking that if we had been home instead of out with Lytell, and if the bomb had gone off earlier and many people had been hurt, you might have been called on to help. And you wondered whether you had everything you needed in your bag to do so.”
“Correct also.”
“You then went back to the paper, which I suspect talked about ’eighty-one, the year we met and the year when the Dynamiters were most active. You then paused and glanced at your desk. That is where you write the somewhat colorful accounts of my cases—and it seemed logical to assume that you were trying to remember whether I had been called in to help solve those earlier bombings. As it happens, I wasn’t. I was not particularly well known then. But now of course I am—so when you turned and looked at me, it seemed reasonable to suppose that you were wondering whether this time I would be called in.”
“Well, now that you’ve explained it, I must say that it does seem rather obvious.”
“Of course,” said Holmes dryly. “In fact, elementary.” And raising his violin he began playing the opening of the Kreutzer Sonata that they had heard Sarasate play three nights before.
There was a knock, and their landlady opened the door.
“Yes, Mrs. Hudson?”
“A young lady to see you, sir,” she said. “She has no appointment, but …”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Holmes, putting down his violin. “Show her in.”
Mrs. Hudson stepped aside, and a soberly dressed, attractive, dark-haired woman in her early thirties entered. Her face was anxious, troubled, and she looked uncertainly from Holmes to Watson.
“Mr. Holmes?”
“I am Holmes. This is my good friend, Dr. Watson.”
“I’m Margaret Harker. It’s good of you to see me this way. I know I should have made an appointment, but I only arrived in London last night …”
“From the United States?”
“Yes. I suppose it’s obvious that I’m an American.”
“And also that you’re extremely distressed. Please sit down and tell me how I can help you.”
“You’re very kind,” she said, sitting gracefully in the chair he held for her. “You can indeed help me if you will agree to.”
“And why should I not?”
“Because …” She looked at Watson.
“Dr. Watson is not only my friend but has been involved in many of my cases. You can speak freely in front of him.”
“Very well. Though I do not believe this is the kind of case you are generally consulted about.”
“I have been consulted about some very strange ones.” He glanced at the ring on her left hand. “It’s Mrs. Harker, is it not?”
“Yes, I’m married. That is an important part of my problem.”
“Perhaps you had better begin at the beginning and give me all the details.”
“I will give you the essential ones and then, if you wish, you can ask me questions. Have you ever heard of John Harker?”
“I’m afraid not. Your husband?”
“Yes. I thought his name might be familiar to you since he is quite well known in American financial circles. I don’t know much about his early history except that he comes from Chicago, where he was involved in railroads. When he came to New York, he was already quite wealthy.”
“You are from New York yourself?”
“Yes. My maiden name was de Windt. We’re quite an old family—I think that’s one of the things that interested John—but we were by no means rich. Though he is considerably older than I am, when I first met him I was rather attracted to him. He’s a very striking looking, masterful man, and after several months of quite intense courtship, I married him.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Ten years ago. Within a few weeks I realized it was a mistake. He did not love me, was not interested in anything but his financial dealings, and wanted—not so much a wife—as a well-bred and accomplished hostess for his very lavish dinners and parties. Well, I did what was expected of me dutifully and, I think, well, and after we had been married for a year I had a child—a girl we named Rachel after my mother—and that changed things completely.”
“In what way?”
“My life finally had some meaning. John cared no more about Rachel than he did about me—I think if we had had a boy it might have been different—but she was everything to me. Everything!” Her deep, warm voice became even deeper with emotion. “Though we had a nurse, I spent almost all my time with Rachel. She was a wonderful baby, an even more wonderful child—sensitive, intelligent and loving and … I don’t think I need to tell you about her.”
“No,” said Holmes.
“During the years that followed, my husband was away a good deal and I began to hear stories about him and other women.” She smiled a little wryly. “One can always count on one’s friends for that. I paid no attention to the stories. I had Rachel, and I had never really had John, so what did it matter? Then, about two months ago, Rachel and I came home unexpectedly from a visit with friends in Newport and found John in our home with his latest flame, a dancer. She had apparently been there all the time we were away. This was too much. I did not mind his affairs when they were discreet. But to flaunt his mistress in our own house, in front of the servants … I asked him to leave, and the next day I consulted an attorney about a divorce.”
“There was no question about evidence, I gather,” said Holmes.
“None. The servants were all willing to testify on my behalf. Then, about a week later …” her voice broke, “Rachel disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” said Watson.
She nodded, her face strained. “John had picked her up at school, saying I was ill. That night I got a note from him in which he said that since I had kept him from Rachel for all these years—which was not true—he was going to keep her from me. That I would never see her again.”
“But this is monstrous!” said Watson indignantly. “Didn’t you go to the police?”
“Of course. They investigated, discovered that John had sailed for France that afternoon with Rachel and then told me something that you are probably aware of, Mr. Holmes, but which staggered me. They said that John had done nothing illegal. That since he was Rachel’s father, it was not kidnapping, and there was nothing I could do about it.”
“That’s correct,” said Holmes. “But I gather you did not leave matters at that.”
“No, I did not. I engaged private detectives. They determined that John is now at the Claridge in Paris with Rachel and that he has employed two bodyguards to watch her. When I heard that, I immediately came here to London to see you.”
“Why me?” asked Holmes.
“Surely that is obvious. You are said to be—and I believe you are—the cleverest detective in the world. I am not a rich woman, Mr. Holmes, but I have some means—and I will strip myself of everything I have to get my child back!”
“In other words,” said Holmes slowly, “you would like me to do what your husband did—steal your child and return her to you.”
“Exactly. He does not love her. He never loved her. He took her for only one reason—to hurt me. But if it was not illegal for him to do what he did, it cannot be illegal for me to do it either.”
“There is a difference. He is the child’s father. I am not. And even though I did it on your behalf, the case is not the same.”
“I’m aware of that. And also of the difficulties. Apart from the bodyguards, John will probably move, go somewhere else and take another name. But if there is anyone who can find him, get Rachel away from him and restore her to me, it is you. Will you do it? Will you?”
The Case of the Baker Street Irregular (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 1) Page 6
