by Nick Kyme
“I think not, Watson,” said Holmes. “Rather it was intended to appear as if he had been mugged. Observe,” he added, pointing with his walking stick, “his boots. Not footwear one would find at Lobb’s.”
Holmes referred to the corpse’s leather boots, in a military style that covered both foot and foreleg. I realised with sudden excitement that I had seen very similar attire worn by the Life Guards who had accompanied the grand duke in Regent Street. “Curious though,” added Holmes. “Any mugger worthy of
the name, especially in the Old Nichol, would strip anything of value. To leave his boots is more than incongruous.”
“As incongruous as why the man would be in this part of London in the first place,” I said.
“Perhaps they tried but couldn’t remove them?”
“An intriguing thought, Inspector,” said Holmes. “Watson,” he added, gesturing to the dead man’s feet, “If you wouldn’t mind.”
I leaned down again to give the left boot a tug, and it came off easily enough.
“Perhaps they were worried about being seen?” suggested Gregson.
“Given where the body now lies,” said Holmes, “the attacker would have had ample time to take whatever they wanted without fear of discovery.”
“Unless all they wanted was his life,” added Gregson.
“Quite, Inspector. No, this was no mugging. I believe the boots were an oversight. I presume this is how you identified the man as Grigori Andropov?”
Gregson nodded, puffed up with no small amount of pride. “I suspected it was him, given that the Russians were looking for one of their own. One of the grand duke’s men confirmed it, but has since been and gone.”
“Not entirely unintelligent, Inspector, to draw conclusions about a man’s identity based purely on his footwear.”
“We’re not all dullards, you know, Holmes. We have solved crimes in London without your assistance.”
“Perish the thought, Inspector. I am sure the people of London will sleep safer in their beds for knowing it.”
Gregson scowled, but deigned not to take the bait. “Duke Konstantin has said he will make a formal identification when we get back to the Yard, but I wanted you to see the body where it lay, Mr Holmes.”
Holmes knelt down by the body for a closer look. “If the wounds to the face were intended to obscure Mr Andropov’s identity, then why not remove his boots? And consider the nature of the wounds themselves. I count more than twenty separate cuts, the length of each varying but deep enough that they were delivered with some force. It was anger that drove the killer to wound this man thusly.”
Holmes leaned in close to sniff the dead man’s fingertips.
“So, they could have known each other then?” asked Gregson, my companion’s eccentric behaviour familiar to him by now.
“It is possible,” said Holmes, seemingly satisfied with the olfactory analysis.
“Or perhaps the killer was not of his right mind?” Gregson ventured further.
“Again, possible, though not determinable from the evidence here. And consider also the location of the crime.” He gestured to the alleyway. “Dark and hidden away from prying eyes. Whoever did this took efforts to ensure they were not observed. An imbalanced mind, in the way that you suggest, Inspector, is not capable of such malice aforethought.
“Consider also the manner in which we found him. No skin or hair under his nails, or any evidence that he put up struggle; there are no defensive wounds on his arms. It suggests he was surprised by his attacker, though if lured into this alley, it would also imply he followed them and was not expecting foul play.” Holmes gestured towards the gutter. “See here.” It was so dark in the shallow recess that I could scarcely make out what my companion was indicating to until he rolled it into plain sight with his stick. It was a cosh.
“Not the weapon of our attacker, I think,” Holmes asserted, “but rather our victim.”
“The grand duke’s man came here to do harm to his murderer, then,” said Gregson.
“It’s possible, but Mr Andropov was charged with the grand duke’s protection, which is reason enough for him to be armed. All we can know for certain at this point is that the murder weapon was not the cosh.”
“Granted, Holmes. But why did he end up here?” asked Gregson, gesturing to the nearby houses. “Do you think whoever he was after lives in one of these lodgings?”
As with much of the Old Nichol, the streets were overlooked by lurching tenements. In some, I saw faces crowded at grimy glass or gawping out of open doorways. None were bold enough to challenge us. With glum acceptance, I realised that death and even murder were an all too common sight in these parts and supposed the only novelty was the appearance of Sherlock Holmes and myself at the scene.
“Unless the victim was redressed, and we can assume this wasn’t the case given he is still wearing his boots, and that his shabby attire is not in keeping with a royal manservant’s garb, then he procured these clothes in order to blend in. This would suggest he did not wish to be recognised and that his intended quarry knew him. Whatever Mr Andropov was doing here in the Old Nichol, he needed to remain unobserved. He had to improvise. Somewhere in this run-down, notorious part of London, I suspect we will find a suspiciously well-frocked, if not well-heeled, tramp or vagabond. He was looking for someone, and I believe he found them. In wanting to see them before they saw him, he required a measure of anonymity. Nothing that would stand up to detailed inspection but just enough that a casual glance would see his presence dismissed.”
“As I understand it,” said Gregson, flicking through his notebook, “the grand duke had no word from his man for several hours, not since earlier that day. He could have been following someone or waiting for them?”
“The only thing we can know for certain at this stage, Inspector, is that he was killed sometime after midnight. The presence of rigor mortis in the neck, jaw, eyelids and extremities confirms it. Would you agree, Watson?”
I nodded.
“Which confirms he followed his murderer most of the day,” said Gregson.
“I believe so, Inspector.”
“He was a tenacious fellow then,” Gregson remarked.
“Either that or he found them and waited for an opportune moment to challenge them,” said Holmes. “Whomever Grigori Andropov was after led him to Columbia Road and this very alleyway. Perhaps they were then successful in evading capture, thus enabling them to, in turn, trap our man here and kill him.”
“And how did he die then, Holmes? I can see no obvious wounding beyond that on his face.”
I wondered if poison could have again been the cause, for I was starting to suspect some connection between this dead Russian manservant and the events at the gallery.
“The wounds to his face occurred after death. See how there is little blood.” Holmes opened up the man’s clothing. Hidden beneath a tatty-looking jacket, there was a faint dark stain on his shirt, little more than a needle prick, over his chest.
“One quick thrust to the heart with something very sharp, very deadly,” said Holmes. “Killed instantly. What do you make of this, Doctor?” he asked, and shuffled aside so I could get a better view.
I examined the small wound in the man’s chest. “I’d say this was done with an extremely thin blade, a stiletto or a very thin sword…” I was instantly put in mind of Graves, and his penchant for blades, including his collection of fencing foils and sabres.
“Can’t say many Londoners are running around with swords, Doctor,” offered Gregson.
I could think of at least one.
“Nonsense, Inspector,” said Holmes. “Many an English gentleman furnishes his evening wardrobe with a walking stick, and many of those harbour a few feet of steel.”
“I can’t arrest every fine fellow of London with a sword-stick, Holmes.”
“And nor should you, else I expect our own dear doctor here would find himself in gaol.”
I smiled politely at the inspector, who
did me the service of not playing along with my companion’s jest.
“No,” Holmes declared, “we must look a little closer…”
As Holmes inspected the wound again, I noticed something had been carved in the flesh.
“Good heavens, Holmes. What is that?”
“Our murderer’s mark,” Holmes replied. “Do you recognise it, Watson?”
I did, but would not say in Gregson’s presence, for it would reveal the fact we had visited the Grayson Gallery under cover of darkness.
“I cannot say I do, Holmes.”
It was the same kind of curved script we had seen daubed beneath the painting of the Undying Man. Not exact, but in the same written style. It could not have been a coincidence.
“What does it mean, Holmes?” asked the inspector, craning his neck for a better look.
Holmes stood, and dusted off his coat. “It means there is a great deal more to Mr Andropov’s death than a simple mugging.”
Gregson frowned, evidently hoping my companion’s observations would prove more conclusive. He then gestured to one of the constables to arrange transportation for the body.
“We’ll get him back to the Yard and see what Roper can find. Perhaps the grand duke will have some ideas, also.”
“Very good, Inspector,” said Holmes, “and in the meantime, perhaps we should speak with your eyewitness?”
Gregson regarded the body for a moment or two, looking quite disgruntled at the loose end. Deciding that this was not about to happen in the immediate future, he turned and gestured for us to follow him.
“This way.”
* * *
Molly Bugle lived in one of the downtrodden and dilapidated tenements on Columbia Road, which ran across the alleyway in which lay the body of Grigori Andropov. An upper floor lodging, Miss Bugle’s domicile looked to offer a good view of the mouth of the alleyway, but I doubted it went as far as the dead end where Grigori Andropov had met his death.
We entered through a black brick arch that led to a communal hallway. It was abjectly dark within, despite the morning sun, which appeared unable or unwilling to penetrate the gloom. A stench pervaded, foul enough to make even the Scotland Yard morgue seem fragrant by comparison.
A rickety wooden stairwell led to the upper floors, dark with mildew and betraying obvious signs of rot. After Gregson gave the railing a good shake, he pronounced it safe and we advanced to the first landing.
“To live amongst filth and detritus like this…” I said in a low murmur, in case any of the residents were listening.
After another flight of stairs, the wood creaking ominously with every step, we reached the domicile of Mrs Molly Bugle. She opened her door on the first knock, having evidently been expecting us, and ushered us in.
The room was small and became quite crowded with the inspector, Holmes, Mrs Bugle and myself in attendance, but it was clean and well tended. A second, even smaller room, not much larger than a cupboard, led off from the first and within its shadowy recess I saw several pale little faces regarding us with fearful eyes.
“Don’t mind them,” said Mrs Bugle, “we don’t ’ave many visitors, and certainly not fine gentlemen like yourselves.” She smiled, but I could see the weariness in her grey eyes and the ravaging of years that I had no doubt made her look older than she actually was.
She wore a dark-blue cotton dress, frayed around the edges, her nails were cut almost to the quick and I saw a reddening at the fingertips that was indicative of vigorous scrubbing. Molly Bugle might lead an impoverished life, but she was clean and her children, for I could assume nothing other, were well behaved.
“Mrs Bugle,” Gregson began, removing his hat out of respect, “I understand you spoke briefly to one of my constables about the man you noticed in the alleyway?”
She nodded. “I thought he must’ve been to tickle his innards, him being tight as a boiled owl on neck oil, or so it seemed to me, Officer.”
I exchanged a covert glance with Holmes, who, noting my confusion, mouthed “drunk” by way of explanation.
“And when did you see him, madam?” asked Gregson, writing feverishly in his notebook.
“It was on my way home,” she said. “I had just done my shift in Budden’s Laundry, and I swear my fingers were red-raw and my back as stiff as a board. Weary I was, sir,” she added, with a furtive look at Holmes and me. Briefly, I considered introducing us both but thought that it would only prolong our stay. “I remember, I had stopped on account of my feet hurting like the devil,” she gestured out of the window to the street below, “there on the corner. At any rate, I saw your man go into the alley, and he didn’t look right on his feet to me, but he weren’t the first to go in there, and that’s what I found odd.”
“You saw someone else?”
She nodded again. “I ain’t no blower, Officer, but I did see another go into that alley before your man, but I didn’t see them leave. I didn’t see neither of them leave, and I waited a while, on account of it being odd.”
Gregson exchanged a brief look with Holmes but my companion’s attention was fixed squarely on Molly Bugle and her intriguing testimony.
“And can you describe this other man, Mrs Bugle?”
“It were hard to tell much about him… I mean, I didn’t see his face on account of the fact he wore a long coat or some such.” She frowned, as if searching for the memory. “No, not a coat. It was a cloak.”
Holmes, who had just begun making a discreet visual inspection of Mrs Bugle’s home, turned, his interest suddenly piqued.
“Did it have a hood, by any chance?” he asked, somewhat languidly.
“Why yes, it did, sir. He was a short fellow, much shorter than the other one. Anyway, he follows the short fellow in and neither comes out. I waited for a little while, before having a look.” She frowned again, trying to remember exact details. “Something about it,” she said, “didn’t seem right. So, I walked to the end of the alley and when I looked down, there he was all five or seven and not up to dick.”
“Who wasn’t, madam?” asked Gregson.
“I beg your pardon, Officer?”
“Feeling well, which fellow?”
“Oh, the larger man. He did not look well. I dared not disturb him, for I had no wish to cop a mouse should he be violent. Of the shorter fellow, though, the one he followed in, I saw no sign.”
“Are you absolutely sure, Mrs Bugle?”
“I swear it, Officer. Two went in, none came out. I mean, I suppose he could have hid, what with it being dark…” she said. “I went to find an officer straight after that, not wishing to have some lushington all but on my doorstep. What else can I tell you, sir? I’m sure I don’t know.”
“You’ve been very helpful, Mrs Bugle,” Gregson replied, giving her a smile. “We’ll bother you no further—”
“I have only one more question,” said Holmes, now looking through the window at the street below. He looked to Gregson. “If you would allow me, Inspector?”
“Would it matter if I objected, Holmes?”
“Not in the slightest, Inspector, but I thought it good manners to at least seek permission.”
Gregson shrugged and gestured for Holmes to do whatever he pleased.
“Madam,” he said, his penetrating stare now upon Molly Bugle, “might I ask how the shorter man walked?”
She screwed up her face, apparently perplexed at my companion’s enquiry. “Not sure I follow, sir.”
Holmes took a step from the window until he was only a stride from Mrs Bugle. “His manner, how would you describe it?”
“It was light, not like most of the oafs you see around here, but not like no Mary Ann or whatnot. He almost… well, glided, I suppose. Like a dancer.”
Or a swordsman, I thought.
“No one walks like that who lives here, sir,” Mrs Bugle went on. “They have heavy feet, weary feet. This chap, and the other who was with him, they didn’t belong, not in the Old Nichol.”
“I think you a
re right, Mrs Bugle,” said Holmes, and gently clasped her hands in his, a most uncharacteristic gesture for my companion, “and we thank you for your good service.”
Holmes let her go and, as Gregson was taking his leave, I noticed he had left something in the lady’s hands. I could not swear to it, for Molly Bugle squirrelled it away in the pocket of her dress as quick as grease, but I thought I caught the shine of a few farthings.
“Madam,” I said, nodding my farewell, silently proud of my friend’s quiet compassion.
Once we were back out onto the street, Gregson remarked to Holmes, “What was all that about then, with all that talk of hoods and how a fellow might have carried himself?”
“Data, Inspector,” Holmes replied, with an air of nonchalance, “merely data. In order to solve a mystery, especially one as violent as murder, one must amass as much data as one can.” He nodded to Gregson’s notebook. “Knowledge is the needle by which we might unstitch a conundrum and lay its secrets bare.”
“So why is it I think it’s you who is harbouring secrets, Holmes,” Gregson replied, narrowing his eyes.
“Not secrets, Inspector,” Holmes reassured him, “but nascent deductions, far too inchoate to reveal at this stage in proceedings. Rest assured, I shall inform Scotland Yard of any developments, but for now, Watson and I have other business.”
“We do?” I asked, genuinely surprised.
“We do,” said Holmes. “No need to accompany us, Inspector, I’m sure we can manage without a police escort. Come along, Watson.”
“Is that it then, Holmes?” said Gregson, a little put out and clearly hoping my companion would furnish him with some insight he could use to solve the murder and thus earn a self-aggrandising headline in The Times.
“I am afraid so, Inspector, though I should be grateful if upon seeing the grand duke again you would ask him a question for me?”
“I’m certain I don’t follow, Holmes, but yes I can do that.”
“Ask him if he knows a man called Reginald Dunbar.”
Gregson frowned. “You were just with him, Holmes. Why didn’t you ask him then?”
“Then it was not pertinent, whereas now it might be, depending on his answer.”
