by Nick Kyme
“No. Thank you,” he replied with a shake of the head, and a slight tremor of the right hand as he smoothed his tie.
“A cup of tea then?” I asked, about to call for Mrs Hudson.
Again, he declined.
“Please, my name is Edmund Garret, and I am in need of assistance. A matter grave and terrible, to be treated with the utmost discretion and tact.”
“A matter your patrons would find alarming if news of it were to get out,” said Holmes, his eyes never leaving our guest.
The man looked agog at this, but recovered his composure sufficiently to reply, “Indeed. It is quite delicate.”
“Tell us then, man,” I urged, sitting down on the settee. “What is it? From where have you come?”
Holmes answered, cutting off poor Mr Garret before his mouth had formed the words. “A Covent Garden establishment, and a cultured one at that.” Holmes set down his pipe and leaned forwards, an alertness in his expression the like of which I hadn’t seen for some time. Even the brief flash of interest I had seen outside the Royal Opera House could not compare.
“Forgive me, Holmes, but how could you possibly have known that?” I said.
“It is simplicity itself. Are you paying attention, Watson?”
“Enrapt, Holmes.”
“First, attire. For the apparel oft proclaims the man, wouldn’t you say so, Watson?”
“I would, Holmes.”
“Shakespeare.”
“Hamlet.”
“Quite so. Here,” said Holmes, returning to the matter in hand, “our subject is wearing a smart suit so I can safely assume he is not a member of the working classes, thus eliminating several professions in one fell swoop. But he isn’t gentry either. Look at the tailoring, Watson.”
I did. “It seems competent enough. A fine suit, Holmes.”
“It is too narrow across the shoulders, resulting in the fact that Mr Garret’s sleeves ride a little high above his wrists. The skirt of his coat is also high, and from this I can discern that Mr Garret did not, in fact, purchase this suit for himself. Note the seams, Watson.”
“Stitched competently. I see nothing untoward.”
“A tiny darkening of the fabric, just above the hemline where the jacket has been let out. Still a little too short, though. Your wife’s handiwork, I presume, Mr Garret?”
Mr Garret could scarcely respond, as paralysed as an insect under a microscope.
“Note a slight squint about the eyes,” Holmes went on, “indicating many hours spent scrutinising objects of great detail and complexity.” Here, Holmes got to his feet and turned to me as if I were his student and he my mentor. “A paleness of the complexion suggests he spends much of his time indoors. There is a stretching of the top pocket, where no doubt he puts his eyeglasses where they are to hand. Taken with the suit, this could suggest a bank clerk. But note, the absence of a writer’s pad on the finger and no trace of ink under the nails of either hand. And, finally, observe the package he has tucked under his left arm. A flat brown paper bag.”
“I confess, I had not really paid it much notice, Holmes.”
“You see, but do not observe, Doctor. There is a tiny slip of coloured paper poking from the top; bright, gaudy and with the slightest suggestion of a design one could only associate with a very specific establishment. Pollock’s.”
“I beg your pardon, Holmes?”
“Benjamin Pollock’s.”
“Ah, the toyshop.”
“The very one.”
“Located in Covent Garden market.”
“Indeed, Watson. I would posit Mr Garret combined several errands this morning. First, he purchased a gift from Pollock’s. Given the urgency of the matter before us, it is highly unlikely he did so on his way to Baker Street. This then suggests he visited the toyshop before he went to his place of work, which, in turn, must be nearby or Pollock’s would not yet have been open. So then, a profession that requires the wearing of a suit, but isn’t well paid, one located in the vicinity of Covent Garden and during which he spends a great deal of time indoors and requires such scrutiny that the man has a squint and wears glasses. Given the location, I would suggest an art gallery. A small one, as befits such modest trappings. The Grayson Gallery of Wellington Street.”
Edmund Garret nodded to my companion.
“Indeed, I do, sir. I am an assistant to the curator.”
“Remarkable, Mr Holmes. Truly. But there must be several galleries within a reasonable distance of Pollock’s,” I said. “How could you possibly know it is this one?”
“Chalk dust, Watson. See here,” said Holmes, pointing at Edmund Garret’s shoes. “The finest feathering of chalk dust around the edges. A cart carrying builders’ chalk upturned on Wellington Street only a day ago. Though the spilled cargo has since been removed, the chalk dust remains, transferred to Mr Garret’s shoes.”
“Bravo, Holmes,” I said.
“Mere logic,” Holmes replied with a dismissive flourish as he returned to his seat. “A simple assimilation and analysis of salient facts. So then, Mr Garret, to your business with us this morning. The hour at which you arrive at our door certainly suggests some urgency and I assume because it is you, Mr Garret, standing here before us and not one of our associates from Scotland Yard, that you have yet to inform the police. That makes robbery unlikely. Kidnapping then? Ah ha, but wait! You said yourself that this was a delicate matter. I doubt a kidnapping would provoke such a reaction. The same is true of simple misadventure. Therefore I can reach only one conclusion as to the reason for your visit. Murder.”
At the mention of the word, Edmund Garret seemed to pale further. “Murder, yes, but one so foul and repellent as to make all of London shrink in fear.”
“Tell us then, man,” I said, hoping to arrest poor Garret’s decline with a short, sharp instruction.
“I cannot. I dare not. Even to speak of it… You must see it for yourselves. Please, I beg of you, Mr Holmes.”
Holmes took a pull on his pipe, and through the pall of smoke I swore I saw my friend smile. “Very well, Mr Garret, we shall bear witness to this unspeakable horror and cut to the truth of it,” Holmes declared, to which the man responded with a prolonged and profuse bout of thanks.
“Be off then, man,” Holmes told him when Garret’s gratitude began to wear thin. “We shall meet you at the gallery. Watson and I shall need to attire ourselves appropriately before we can be abroad in London,” and here he glanced at me with mock resignation, “even if my companion thinks it acceptable to meet our guests in his slippers.”
I bristled at the remark but held my tongue as a relieved and still shaken Edmund Garret left our rooms and headed down the stairs, bound for Wellington Street.
“Ready yourself, Watson!” Holmes proclaimed, almost leaping from his chair in that mercurial manner of his.
“I see your mood has improved, Holmes,” said I, somewhat ruefully but inwardly relieved about the lifting of his malaise.
“Indeed it has, Watson. Indeed it has. Quickly now!”
CHAPTER THREE
THE THIEF OF REGENT STREET
I dressed hurriedly, and soon a cab was taking us to Wellington Street and the Grayson Gallery.
“What manner of travesty could have befallen the place, Holmes?” I asked as we left Baker Street behind.
“A better question is how it could have gone unnoticed,” Holmes answered, staring into the shadowy confines of the hansom as if a secret would be revealed to him if only he looked long enough. “Wellington Street is less than two hundred yards from the Royal Opera House and yet no commotion, no indication of murder or horror of any stripe manifested yesterday evening, or, evidently, this morning. So, the question is, how does an act so heinous as to paint a man white and render him quite unable to relate the particulars of the deed not at least arouse some concerned curiosity?”
I had no answer, save to say that we would perhaps be wiser once we had reached the Grayson Gallery and the scene of the alleged
crime.
Holmes sat back in his seat, preferring his thoughts to my attempts at conversation. I returned to staring out of the window, noting the passers-by going about their daily business—the coalmen with horse and carts, drunks staggering about, vendors selling trotters and eels, and the usual profusion of beggars and urchins.
On the corner of Weymouth Street I heard one young newsboy flogging to all and sundry, some story pertaining to a foreign dignitary having arrived in London. Intrigued, I rapped my knuckles on the ceiling of the hansom to instruct our driver to slow down so I could procure a broadsheet, since my companion evidently had no interest in conversation.
As I was fishing around in my jacket pocket for a penny, Holmes smacked his cane against the edge of the window and I recoiled from the shock.
“Good God, Holmes! You could have struck me.”
Holmes then thumped the cane twice more upon the ceiling for our driver to apply the whip.
“I was after a broadsheet, man. What was all that about?”
“A waste, Doctor,” said Holmes, without so even favouring me with a glance, “especially when we are about to run into the object of your curiosity. And we need to make haste while we are still able.”
At these remarks, I could only look at Holmes dumbfounded.
“The velikiy kniaz,” he added, as if this explained all. “His royal carriage was amongst the traffic on Regent Street this morning.”
“I beg your pardon, Holmes?” I asked, as our carriage came to an abrupt halt. “What’s all this hullabaloo,” I muttered, half to myself, half to Holmes, and stuck my head out of the window. We had not long turned into Regent Street and barely made it a hundred yards when a large crowd that stretched from colonnade to street corner barred any further progress.
I turned back to Holmes, intent on further enquiry, only to find he had hopped out of his seat and left the hansom to proceed on foot.
“Holmes!” I called after him, having to raise my voice above the excited hubbub in the street around us. “What the devil?”
“Come, Watson,” Holmes called back over his shoulder. I swore I saw him grin as he near vaulted atop a goods crate bound for one of the many shops on Regent Street. Thusly elevated, Holmes stood astride his new vantage point and extended his cane across the masses that now thronged the street.
Never have I witnessed such crowds, and was sure to cling tightly to my wallet as the fine ladies and gentlemen who frequented Regent Street rubbed shoulders with every enterprising dipper, tooler and sneak of the West End.
Scrambling a little, I joined Holmes at the summit of the goods crate and tried to ignore the disapproving glances directed our way. For his part, Holmes appeared to have no trouble feigning ignorance.
From this precarious perch I had a better view of the crowd, and in addition to the gawkers and filchers I noticed several men and women angrily jeering at some hitherto unrevealed objection.
“Your idle curiosity, Doctor,” said Holmes.
Still none the wiser, I followed the direction indicated by Holmes’s outstretched cane and my gaze alighted on a large entourage leaving Hamleys. I could only assume that this was to whom the protestors were directing their ire and the reason why there was a sizeable police presence on Regent Street. The entourage was led by six dour-looking men, whose long green velvet uniform coats embroidered with regal livery, taken together with black wool tricorns and high leather boots, marked them out as Russian Life Guards. A livelier man followed these grim wardens, his own attire altogether more vibrant. Both he and a young boy—whose close resemblance to him led me to conclude he was his son—wore red wool suits with light golden braiding at the cuffs and shoulders. Father and son’s hats were fur-trimmed with sable and fashioned of black wool.
“The Grand Duke Konstantin,” said I, recalling the headline if not the body of the newspaper article Holmes had denied me earlier, and with not a small measure of awe at seeing such a royal personage in our midst. I realised belatedly that this was whom Holmes had been referring to when he had used the Russian, velikiy kniaz. I turned to my companion, whose gaze I noted was not on the grand duke’s entourage but instead followed the myriad urchins moving like eels throughout the crowd.
“Visiting Regent Street,” said Holmes. “Though a father buying a gift for his son would not usually bring all of London to a halt,” he added with disdain.
“As well as draw out a few firebrands,” said I, referring to the rowdy protestors.
“There!” Holmes suddenly announced, and practically leapt from his vantage point to delve into the masses all eager for a glimpse of Konstantin.
“Holmes?” I asked confused, scrambling down after him.
“Come, Watson, don’t dawdle,” I heard him cry above the din of the crowd. It was only by virtue of my companion’s height that I was able to track him through a mob so dense that it took me several minutes to make any headway moving perpendicular, as I was, to the general flow.
Ignoring the muttered insults and defamatory invectives, I began to elbow my way to the other side of the street and was roughly halfway across when a young woman barrelled straight into me.
Fearing she might be a finewirer, I recoiled and took a firm grip of my wallet, but upon seeing her and the obvious distress she was in, I realised my error.
“Miss…” I began, catching the slightest glimpse of a pretty face, blue eyes and blonde hair, before she bolted past me with scarcely an acknowledgement, let alone an apology. I was about to turn and remonstrate with the young woman, when out of the corner of my eye I saw the cause for her apparent anxiety.
A stern-looking thick-jawed man, his eyes narrow and close together, and wearing a dark jacket and woollen cap, appeared, clearly giving chase, his gaze fixed on her retreating form. So intent was he on his pursuit that he barely spared me a glance until I seized him by the forearm and brought him to an abrupt halt.
“See here, sir,” I said. “What’s the meaning of all this?”
The man turned sharply, but found my grip strong enough that he was forced to answer my question.
“She’s a thief!” he snapped, a feral look in his eye that I didn’t favour at all. “She stole my wallet,” he added, a slight accent to his voice that I couldn’t quite place.
“Well, I advise you find the nearest constable, sir,” I told the man, releasing my grip. He snarled something at me as he resumed his pursuit of the woman, whom I noted, with some satisfaction, had made good her escape.
I watched him disappear into the crowd too, before Holmes hailed me with growing impatience and I continued across the street. Upon reaching the other side, I made a swift check of my wallet and, to my utmost relief, found it present and unmolested.
“Making friends, Watson?” asked Holmes, poised at the entrance to Orange Street. “Why I endure your indulgences I shall never know,” he added, turning on his heel.
“Should we not alert someone, Holmes?” I asked, referring to the plight of the young woman. “He had a rough look about him that fellow.”
“I think not, Watson,” Holmes replied, walking away swiftly. “I believe the constables present have enough to contend with without concerning themselves with petty theft. We don’t have time to go around chasing every young lady who steals your pocket watch.”
“My what—?” I patted down my jacket and to my dismay discovered Holmes was indeed right; my pocket watch had been stolen! “Good God, Holmes,” I began, about to head back into the crowd.
“A matter for another time, Watson. Fear not, we shall see you reunited with your father’s watch. For now, we must be on our way.”
“I hope you are right, Holmes. It is very dear to me.”
“Then hope your scoundrel reaches your lady thief and justice is served. The Grayson Gallery awaits!”
CHAPTER FOUR
A GRUESOME EXHIBITION
I was still annoyed about my pocket watch when Holmes and I finally reached our destination and were met by Edmund Garr
et at the threshold of the gallery. Rather than enter through the main entrance, the tremulous assistant took us around to a side street and a shadowy back door.
“I warn you,” he said, fumbling nervously with his keys as if the mere proximity to this place eroded his resolve, “it is a grim sight.”
“I expect it is a good deal worse than that, Mr Garret,” said Holmes, intent on the door and doubtless already calculating what might lie within, “for why else come to us before notifying the police. I assume Scotland Yard are on their way?”
“Yes, sir,” said Garret, paler now than when we first met the man in 221B. “I had hoped to keep it from public knowledge a little longer, but there was nothing for it. I dread to think what it’ll do to the gallery’s reputation.”
“If there is one thing that is ever certain, Mr Garret,” said Holmes, “it is that Londoners have an insatiable yearning for the gruesome and the macabre. I fully expect the gallery will thrive. Now, onwards, Mr Garret.”
Edmund Garret nodded and at last managed to open the door. A dingy corridor beckoned, little more than a preamble to the gallery proper, and Garret escorted Holmes and me through several smaller rooms. Finally we arrived through a stout-looking door and then under a high archway into a large chamber with a vaulted ceiling upon which was a fresco in the classical style, depicting a scene from The Odyssey. There were comfortable benches down the centre of the room intended, I assumed, for the prolonged admiration and observation of the various landscapes and portraits hanging on the walls. But however fine the art, my eye was drawn to something even more arresting and entirely more unpleasant.
Dressed in their finery but lying in disarray and death were the patrons of the Grayson Gallery, both men and women, their faces contorted in fear and agony. I counted over thirty dead, mostly clustered around the exit, as if a stampede had been brought to an abrupt and terrible halt. A faint waft of decay had begun to emanate from the bodies. I had noticed the tang of it before we entered.
