by Nick Kyme
Holmes nodded humbly. “I am he, though to the inspector’s reported accolade, I could hardly attest.”
“Of course, I have heard of you,” the grand duke went on, nonchalant. “The name Sherlock Holmes is renowned throughout the world. I insist upon the best, as you can see.” He gestured to his surroundings. “They are modest accommodations, but what is it you English say? It will do?”
“It will do nicely,” said Holmes.
“I beg your pardon?” asked Grand Duke Konstantin, and I thought I detected a mote of surprise at the interruption. Here, I think, was a man used to speaking and having others listen until he deigned to allow them to comment, if at all.
“The expression you are looking for, it will do nicely.”
The grand duke gave a smile, but some of the warmth had fled from it. “No, I think my version is better. More accurate.”
Holmes gave a shrug as the grand duke’s attention fell upon me.
“And this here is clearly Dr Watson. You were a soldier, is that right? Yes,” he said, nodding and without waiting for me to answer, again taking his measure, “you have the look of a fighting man.”
“I did indeed serve,” I told him, “with the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, until I was attached to the 66th Berkshire Regiment of Foot.”
The grand duke leaned back in the Chesterfield, apparently impressed. Though I knew the Russians had interests in the Afghan War, our host, to his credit, made no mention of the fact, nor did it appear to colour his gregarious demeanour in any way. “You were an officer?”
“Army physician. I was wounded at the Battle of Maiwand.” I instinctively rubbed at the old wound in my leg.
Despite the grim memories of conflict, I found it strangely fraternal to be discussing such matters with the grand duke. Holmes knew much about a great deal, but he had no experience of battle, nor did he possess a great deal of empathy.
“A doctor,” said the grand duke, nodding as if he somehow approved of my history, “yes, I can see that. You will have seen much blood, I expect.”
“More than enough to last a lifetime.”
“I too was a soldier. I killed… many men. Many Turks,” he said, quite matter-of-factly, without relish as far as I could discern. It was his duty to his country, and so he did it. He waved away the memory, as if it were an unpleasant fug of smoke. “But listen to me, discussing such grim matters.”
“As I understand it,” said Holmes, who had been listening patiently, “it is a grim matter that has brought us to your door, Your Royal Highness?”
The grand duke’s face briefly darkened before a young boy came bounding into the sitting room from one of the adjoining rooms. His attire was also white, though less ornate than his father’s, for this could be none other than the grand duke’s son.
He eagerly leapt upon his father, whose face brightened at once. Grand Duke Konstantin caught his son with aplomb, making a show of how heavy he was, and how big he had grown in the short time since he had last seen him. After indulging the boy, the grand duke calmed him down and spoke a little to him in Russian before pointing to the pewter figure the lad had clutched in his hand.
It appeared father asked son about the nature of the soldier, his regiment and colours, eliciting a cry of laughter from the boy. Once they were done, the grand duke appeared to remember he had guests and gestured to Holmes and me.
“Sergei, come and meet the renowned detective Sherlock Holmes and his friend, Dr Watson.” The boy turned and gave a shallow bow.
“Please to meet you,” he said, in halting English.
“And you, Your Royal Highness,” I replied, shaking the boy’s hand as it was offered and doffing my hat.
Holmes gave a forced but polite smile, and said to the grand duke, “He is the very image of his father.”
The grand duke beamed at the boy. “Indeed he is,” he said, not taking his eyes off his son. “Sergei is my heir and one day he too will be velikiy kniaz.”
He said the word in Russian, presumably so the boy would understand, who saluted crisply in the manner I am sure he imagined the soldier in his hand would have done had he been flesh and blood.
“Such precious innocence…” the grand duke said softly as he cradled his son’s chin, and once more I saw the faint impression of anxiety in the tightness of his lips and the shallow frown that began to form on his brow. However, it faded as quickly as it had formed, the grand duke clapping a hand on the boy’s shoulder as he said, “Off you go then, son, to your duty.”
He smiled as the boy saluted again, his father saluting back, before Sergei marched off and we were left alone.
As soon as the grand duke was sure his son was out of earshot, he picked up the threads of our earlier conversation.
“Grim matters, yes…” he said dolefully, and looked off into the distance, his mind briefly elsewhere, but when he met Holmes’s gaze again his eyes were stern and purposeful.
“My visit to your country was intended to be for pleasure,” he said, “but regardless, I always take Grigori wherever I go. He is my…” he struggled with the correct word for a moment, “manservant, and attends to a great manner of things for Sergei and me. He comes from good family, Andropov, who have served my family for generations. Grigori and I, we fought together, side by side. He has saved my life,” said the grand duke, his eyes narrowed, “many times. This is a bond not easily broken, a debt not easily repaid. But more than this, he is my comrade, my friend. I am sure you gentlemen can understand such a relationship, yes?”
I nodded, though briefly considered that the grand duke considered me Holmes’s assistant, rather than his friend and colleague.
“Yesterday I decided to take my son to Hamleys. He had heard of it, of course, and would not let me rest until he had seen it for himself.” He leaned in, as if about to impart some earnest secret. “Sergei is everything to me. There is nothing I would not do for him, Mr Holmes, nothing. In this regard, I always keep Grigori close by, to keep us safe, but mainly to look after my son. So it was, the first time I realised that something was wrong was when we returned to our carriage and Grigori was not there. This was most unusual for Grigori. He is a… watchdog, so for him to abandon his post, there must have been a good reason.
“The day wore on, and still there was no sign of him. I began to become worried for my friend, for I had received no word.”
“Did you contact the police?” I asked.
The grand duke leaned back, and shook his head. “I prefer to deal with matters in my own way.”
“But you have contacted Scotland Yard now,” I said. “One of its inspectors is waiting outside.”
Here, Grand Duke Konstantin nodded. “I did, yes. Your… Gregson.” His mouth struggled to form the hard consonants. “In truth, I did so in order to reach you, Mr Holmes. I knew you by reputation, but not where I might find you. I considered that your police, your Scotland Yard, would know. This inspector, now you are here, is of no use.”
Holmes gave a faint smile. “Indeed, sir, but what use would you put me to? I have yet to hear of a crime in need of investigation. Your man, he has not returned, I presume?”
The grand duke paled a little. “I am afraid he is dead. Found earlier this morning. I have yet to see the body—I have no wish to see him thus, and I will not leave Sergei alone until this murderer is apprehended—but it has been described to me. It is none other than Grigori. He has not been touched, not by the man I sent to confirm his identity, and not, I understand, by any of your policemen, either. Such things matter, do they not?”
Holmes nodded, and I thought I detected his attitude softening towards the grand duke.
“You must understand,” the Russian went on. “I must know who did this.”
“And should you find them, sir, the one who killed your man, what will you do?” asked Holmes.
“That should be of no concern to you. I merely wish to see justice done.”
“There are many interpretations of justice.”
The gr
and duke gave a curt smile, rising from his seat, and I got the impression our meeting with him was nearing its end, as was our host’s patience.
“I did not summon you to debate the law, Mr Holmes,” he said. “I am in need of your skills as a detective. I beseech you, find who killed Grigori.”
Holmes stood, as did I.
“Tell me, sir,” said my companion, “what brings you to London?”
“A gala performance is to be staged in my honour, a ballet at your Royal Opera House. But I fail to see how this has any bearing on Grigori’s murder.”
“Possibly nothing,” said Holmes, “possibly everything. One can never know, but no detail is ever wasted.”
Grand Duke Konstantin frowned. “So, you will take this case of mine? You will find Grigori’s murderer?”
“I will not,” answered Holmes, brazenly, and I admit I was taken aback by his boldness.
“You refuse me?”
“Regrettably, I must do. I am presently engaged in another case and cannot divert my attention from it. This meeting has already taken me away from my investigations for too long.” To my astonishment, Holmes then gave a curt bow, tipping his hat, and turned to leave. “Come along, Watson.”
I had begun to follow when the grand duke got over his apparent shock and cried out, “Is it money? I can make you a wealthy man.”
“I am perfectly comfortable already, thank you,” Holmes replied, and again I marvelled at his sheer nerve.
We had reached the door when the grand duke made his final gambit.
“This displeases me greatly. I had heard you were a great man, committed to justice and the law. You have principles, and I respect that, but I am in need of your help, Mr Holmes. Would you at least consent to see the body and share any thoughts you might have? As I said, it has not been interfered with. Would you at least do me this favour? I should not like to beg, but I will.”
Holmes paused at the door, then turned. “Very well, sir, but this and no more.”
* * *
Gregson had already gone by the time we emerged from the lavish suite. The two guards eyed us as suspiciously as before. Holmes gave them a polite tip of the hat, to which they seemed unsure how to respond, and we continued on.
On the way down to the Langham’s lobby, I asked, “Had you always intended to accede to the grand duke’s request, Holmes?”
“Of course, my dear Watson,” he said, as light as the day, “I merely wanted him to ask politely rather than assume I was his servant to command.”
I shook my head, and gave a rueful smile.
We found Gregson waiting for us below, looking less than impressed at his treatment. “You going to see the body then, Holmes?” he asked.
“I am.”
“Very well, then,” answered Gregson, seemingly pleased to be leaving the Langham and self-entitled foreign dignitaries.
In truth, so was I.
“Where was the grand duke’s man found?” I asked.
Gregson glanced at me over his shoulder. “A most unlikely place for a royal manservant,” he replied. “The Old Nichol.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE FACELESS MAN
It could not be mere coincidence that I had followed Damian Graves to this very same part of London, but a day ago. Holmes had yet to remark upon the significance of the location, and had maintained a pensive silence throughout the journey from the Langham to the Old Nichol, but I could tell his interest had been piqued. There was more here than simple murder.
I briefly considered whether or not we should mention the fact to the inspector, but knew that Holmes had his methods and would do so when he deemed fit. In truth, there was little to report, save that Graves had come here the same day, a fact that hardly pointed to murder and would appear wholly coincidental. Indeed, any attempt to implicate Graves in nefarious matters, if unsubstantiated by evidence, would only serve to make him aware of Holmes’s interest and thus make any future efforts to discover his deeds more difficult.
So it was that I came to the Old Nichol with a great many questions still unanswered.
The four-wheeler that had swiftly conveyed us from the Langham came to a halt a fair distance from where the body had been found, awaiting our return in one of the marginally more salubrious parts of the district, meaning we had to make the rest of the journey on foot. Even in these invisible outskirts, I felt the oppressive presence of the Old Nichol again, wretched in all its squalor.
We left a fairly broad street, descending down narrow stone steps beneath a looming arch that felt like the gates to some underworld labyrinth, as ugly tenements of black brick rose up on either side of us and the stench of the unwashed and the fetid filled the nostrils. It might have been my imagination, but the air felt colder, the weather appreciably bleaker the deeper we went. A vile keening struck up and for a moment I thought we had strayed upon some poor soul being murdered in the shadows, until I realised it was the wind whipping between houses that crowded and choked the streets.
Though it was my second visit in as many days, the effect of the Old Nichol had not lessened with familiarity.
“To live in such a place…” I muttered. Holmes heard me, though that was not my intent.
“And yet there are those at this nadir of society who still value the law.”
Holmes was no socialist, but he had a keen affinity for the downtrodden, his Baker Street Irregulars a perfect case in point. It was at times like these that I was reminded that a compassionate man still resided behind his cage of logic.
According to Gregson, the local constabulary had been alerted earlier that morning. One of the poor denizens of Columbia Road had thought the dead man an inveterate drunk, a ubiquitous sight in these parts for sure, but one they wanted waking and moving on. I considered my earlier assumptions about these people when I had come to the Old Nichol before, about their wretchedness and perfidy, and found them unworthy.
As we walked, Gregson took out his notebook and read aloud from it. “Woman by the name of Molly Bugle found the body,” he said. “Has a domicile on Columbia Road. The constable who she spoke to is waiting for us at the scene.”
“Has she been interviewed yet, Inspector?” asked Holmes, his eyes fixed ahead as he kept up a brisk pace.
“Next thing on my list, Holmes,” replied Gregson, tapping the notebook with his pencil for emphasis.
“If it is agreeable, I should like to be present. Rest assured,” added Holmes, “I shall not interfere in your questioning, but merely listen and observe.”
Gregson gave a grunt of assent. Then he pointed. “Here it is.”
The body of Grigori Andropov was lying face down in the gutter, the limbs tangled up in the refuse of a narrow dead-end alleyway. A pair of constables, one of whom had made the initial response and both here by Gregson’s charge, watched over the body to ensure it wasn’t interfered with prior to it being taken back to Scotland Yard for further examination.
“Has anyone touched the body?” asked Holmes, ignoring the constables as he moved a little closer. Although the grand duke had assured us no such tampering had occurred, it was only prudent to check with the officers at the scene.
Gregson shook his head, before giving a sharp nod to his two cohorts to step back and afford Holmes some room, which they obligingly did. “Save to ascertain whether or not he was simply inebriated or more permanently impaired.”
Holmes gave a nod, only half-listening as he took in the state of the man. “Well, Inspector, he most assuredly is dead, so in that at least you have not erred.”
Gregson bit back a retort, his eyes wide and annoyed as he looked to me. I had no reply, so merely smiled by way of mute apology.
The dead man was shabbily dressed, certainly not the attire of a royal manservant, and I immediately wondered whether he had been redressed for some reason. His hands and nails were clean, making him quite out of place here in the Old Nichol. Other than that, there was little else to distinguish him from the common dregs that w
ashed up in this most impoverished part of London.
“How was he killed, Inspector?” I asked, unable at first glance to detect any obvious means of death.
“We hoped you might be able to help with that, Dr Watson,” Gregson admitted.
“The manner of his limbs and the fact he is lying face down in the dirty street would suggest he was killed where he stood and fell into this position immediately afterwards,” said Holmes. “However he met his end, he did so swiftly and violently, though we will know more once he is turned over. Watson, would you mind?”
“Of course, Holmes,” I said, knowing that my companion would want to observe everything as the body was moved in case a crucial piece of evidence was disturbed during the process. It was a grim task, but nothing I was unacquainted with.
“Inspector, if I could prevail upon the assistance of one of your constables?” I ventured.
Never a man afraid to get his hands dirty, Gregson stepped in himself. With his help, I managed to turn the body over and found to my dismay that the victim’s face had been badly disfigured through the action of a sharp blade or perhaps a broken bottle, for there were many lying about.
“Lord, someone has made a good mess of him,” said Gregson, standing back to regard the body.
I had seldom seen a grimmer sight on civilian streets, save perhaps for an imitation found in one of London’s gruesome waxwork emporiums. Here was true horror rendered in flesh, and all the more ghastly for that.
Gregson had taken off his hat, and ran a hand through his hair. “Have you ever seen the like?” he said with scarcely breath enough to whisper.
“It is a bad end, indeed,” I said.
“How did he come to such an end, though?” said Gregson, donning his hat again. “A mugging, perhaps? This is hardly Mayfair.”
“Nor is it the butcher’s block,” I replied, unconvinced by the inspector’s hypothesis.
At Gregson’s order, one of the constables checked the dead man’s pockets, but found no wallet.
“Whoever attacked him has emptied his pockets,” I said. “If this was a mugging, it was a brutal one.”
