by Nick Kyme
“I still don’t follow, Holmes.”
“It is of small importance, I think, Inspector,” said Holmes, waving away Gregson’s concerns as if wafting smoke. “I imagine you will be wanting to get the body to the Scotland Yard morgue. If there is room, of course,” he added.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A HURRIED DEPARTURE
We left the Old Nichol and picked up a cab on Threadneedle Street. It was only once we were aboard the hansom and on our way back to Baker Street that I let down my guard.
“Though it shames me to admit it, I find a great deal of ill-feeling towards that place.”
“There is a great deal of ill done within it, Watson, but don’t judge too harshly those whose lot has left them in such low circumstances. There is murder and perniciousness aplenty in Mayfair as well as The Mount.”
“Justly spoken, Holmes,” I said, and felt my own social conscience lacking in comparison to my companion’s. “But surely you can agree it is a grim and villainous place?”
“No more so than the bastions of Whitehall, where the mechanisms of justice find themselves ill-equipped to account for the slithering manoeuvrings of the arch politick, and behind every smiling facade there lurks the potential for deceit of the most deplorable stripe.”
“Holmes, you surely cannot believe that,” I said, then lowered my voice. “Why, you would taint your own brother with the tarred brush.”
“Not entirely, though Mycroft has his secrets, and I have yet to meet a servant of Whitehall that did not have a serpent’s smile. Men with power have much to lose, and will often do much to hold on to it should it be threatened. Let us consider Mr Graves, shall we?”
“A rich man, but not a politician.”
“Indeed not, though his motivations might be such.”
I considered the fact that Graves might have some political affiliation but could find no hook upon which to tether my thoughts. Instead, I considered the facts at hand and what was very likely the return of our mysterious adversary from the Grayson Gallery.
“The cloak and hood, Holmes,” I said.
“Yes, Watson,” he replied, and the faintest trace of irritation returned, I suspect at the memory of our thwarted pursuit the previous night. “I believe it was our figure in black.”
“Evidently they have a penchant for mystery, and a wardrobe with a ready supply of cloaks.”
“And, it would seem,” said Holmes, “for murder.”
I gazed out of the cab’s window for a moment, watching the streets flit by, my mind going back over everything we had seen and heard over the last few days.
“A single thrust to the heart,” I said. “A difficult blow to land with precision, but made with skill. Can we be certain that Damian Graves is not somehow involved in all of this? I take it we are to pay him another visit?”
“Almost certainly, Watson,” Holmes replied, though looked preoccupied, “but he is not our murderer if that is what you are suggesting.”
I turned to Holmes, dumbfounded. “You dismiss him out of hand, Holmes? He is both a consummate swordsman and was seen acting suspiciously in the vicinity of the Old Nichol.”
“Hardly proof, Watson. But consider all the salient facts.”
“Such as?”
“The physique of the figure in black does not match that of Graves.”
“How can you be sure, though, Holmes? It was dark, and the man was wearing a cloak.”
“Many things are possible, Watson, but the description given to us by our witness suggested a short individual. How would you reconcile this information with what we know of Damian Graves?”
He was deliberately leading me to see if I could respond to the intellectual challenge. I smiled. “I have no wish to impugn the testimony of our witness, but that is surely fallible to a degree also. Furthermore, testimony is not fact.”
Holmes smiled. “Indeed, indeed, memories in my experience can often be made to fit the assumed facts. Molly Bugle may have been mistaken. As you say, it was dark and she already admitted she was fatigued. Perhaps also she invented details in order to become a part of the grim romance of a murder investigation; such things are not uncommon. Here, though, Watson, is where I can say beyond all doubt that the figure in black was not Damian Graves.”
“You have my full attention, Holmes,” I replied.
“During both our encounter in the vicinity of Tavistock Street, and again off Columbia Road, our quarry effected an escape by means both remarkable and highly athletic. A gymnast, perhaps? You suggested as much yourself, Watson. Certainly, Graves’s exercise regimen extended to such activities and more besides, judging by the paraphernalia he had arrayed at his home. At both scenes, though, I noted marks on the wall: hand and boot prints. Such a dextrous feat would require the full extension of the body to achieve, and a mental reckoning of the distance between the extremities places our figure in black somewhere between five feet five inches and five feet seven inches, if one then subtracts the three inches of boot heel intended to suggest they were taller.” Here, I was reminded of what was recovered on the rooftops of Tavistock Street in the late evening rain—a boot heel, broken off during a pursuit.
“A further attempt to obscure their identity, Holmes.”
“Indeed, Watson. Though we cannot say for certain whether or not the figure in black Molly Bugle saw was in fact short or the same individual we encountered at the gallery that night, the apparent reduction in height would coincide with the discovery of the broken heel, rendering their boots unusable.”
“To what end though, Holmes?”
“I believe, Watson, they were trying to obscure the fact that they are not a man at all.”
“A woman, Holmes!” I cried, for such wanton murder and larceny seemed beyond the fairer sex. “But to have killed a man thusly…?”
“Is it so difficult to believe? It is hardly some mild-mannered ingénue we are dealing with, Watson, but a murderess both skilled and determined. Do you recall our visit to the house of Damian Graves?”
“Of course, Holmes. A fine establishment, crassly flaunted, in my opinion.”
“And what do you remember of the fencing apparatus?”
I paused to bring a picture of the room to mind. “It was in great abundance, Holmes. How a man would have need of so many sabres and foils is beyond me, but it tallies with his love of excess in all other matters.”
“How indeed, Watson. The blade I held—”
“The one you threw across the room, you mean.”
Holmes smiled. “Just the one. A little theatre for our host. It was very light, far too light for a man such as Graves. I have made studies of weapons, edged, blunt, projectile and ballistic—I have even penned several monographs on the subject, for it is pertinent to my work—and I can assert that the weapon I used was not meant for a man of Graves’s size. Considering his obvious expertise concerning swords, I do not believe it was purchased in error, either.”
“Holmes, what on earth could Graves want with a too-light sabre?”
“I do not believe it was his blade, Watson, but rather intended for another.”
“The figure in black? This murderess that eludes us?”
“None other, Watson.”
“So, they are in league.” I clenched a fist, triumphant. “By the devil, I knew he was rotten!”
“Knowing and proving are two different matters. I have a theory, but—” Holmes paused, leaving his thought incomplete. “Ah, Baker Street at last,” he said, as the hansom pulled up to 221B.
I followed Holmes as he exited our cab, before opening the street door and swiftly advancing up the stairs to our lodgings. My companion seemed gripped by a sudden fervour and urgency, and by the time I had caught up to him, he had the cloak in hand undergoing inspection.
“There is time only for a cursory examination,” Holmes explained, “but this should more than suffice.”
“Are we in a rush, Holmes? I was not aware we had an appointment.”
“Indeed we are, Watson, and indeed we do. Here!” he said, brandishing the garment as if it might suddenly burst into flames or spring to life. “What do you see?”
I frowned, but stated the obvious anyway. “It is a black cloak,” I said, before gauging the length by eye. “I’d say around five foot four inches in length.”
“It’s five foot six and a half inches, Watson, but very good. So, the length is consistent with our figure in black, as is the hue. But what of the infinitesimal and the invisible?” he asked, as he put his angular nose to the garment and breathed in deeply. “Lavender and rose hips, faint but detectable.”
Holmes’s olfactory ability was as highly developed as his other four senses, and it never failed to amaze me how he could discern precise aromas.
“Not a man’s scent,” I said.
“Commonly, no,” said Holmes, “but there are two other items of note. Firstly,” and he held up a thin, fair hair, far too long to belong to Graves.
“Found at the collar?” I guessed.
“Precisely, Watson. Secondly, there are very faint deposits of a fine powder also around the neck.”
“Meaning what, though, Holmes?”
“Meaning beyond doubt that our figure in black is indeed female, highly athletic and almost certainly known to Damian Graves. He put a finger to his tongue. “Chalk, for grip,” he said, “transferred from the hands to the neck when the wearer adjusted the collar.” I remembered then that the figure wore no gloves. “And something else.” Holmes frowned. He then swiftly checked the time on his pocket watch before barrelling past me and into my bedroom, where he began to fling about my clothes.
“Are you possessed, Holmes?” I asked, bemused, as I approached the threshold. “What on earth are you doing? Are you feeling entirely well?”
“Perfectly well, Doctor, as I am sure a man of your profession will immediately attest.”
“Then what on earth has gotten into you?”
“Time, as ever, is of the essence, dear Watson.”
“Time for what, Holmes?” I asked, looking on aghast as my companion flung garment after garment into the air.
“Quickly now,” Holmes replied, as he heaved a modestly sized suitcase from the top of my wardrobe and proceeded to throw it behind him. “Or we shall miss our train.”
I ducked, the suitcase only narrowly missing my head and landing none the worse for wear in our sitting room.
“Our train? Holmes!” I cried. “Have you lost your senses? What is the meaning of all this?”
“You will need some warm clothes, Watson, and probably a scarf or two,” he replied, ejecting said items in my vague direction. “Some stout boots…”
These I managed to catch, before I decided enough was enough. Striding into my bedroom, I had every intention of accosting Holmes in the midst of his casual vandalism when he turned and quite caught me off guard.
“A trip, Watson,” he said, his eyes glittering and eager. “We are bound for the country.”
“We are?”
Holmes nodded. “How well do you know Cambridgeshire?”
“I cannot say well, but—”
Holmes clapped his hands on my shoulders in a comradely fashion. “Fear not, Doctor, for we shall be acquainted with it soon enough.”
“And where might your case be?”
Holmes raised a finger, bidding me to indulge him a moment as he took a second glance at his watch. “Already packed and waiting downstairs. Anticipating this little adventure, I planned ahead.”
He then swept from my room, scooping up an array of garments as he went, and began to stuff them in my suitcase.
“I have telegraphed ahead, so we are expected. We will need a cab to take us to the station.”
I watched agog, quite wrong-footed by unfolding events. “Once more, Holmes, if you would. You have me at a loss.”
He turned and looked over his shoulder at me, paused in the act of shoving an extra scarf into my suitcase. “Our answers lie at Saint Agatha’s, Watson.”
“The boarding school? The one Graves has been sending money to?” I remembered it from the deposit slips Holmes had lifted from Graves’s pocket.
“The very place,” said Holmes. “As soon as I discovered Mr Graves’s association with the school I made sure to contact them.”
“And what do you propose we do when we get there?” I asked, starting to gather up my belongings from where Holmes had thrown them so casually.
“All in good time, Watson. For now, I shall have Mrs Hudson find us a cab.” He then scurried out of the door, pausing only to snatch up his hat and stick. As his hurried footsteps resounded on the stairs, he called out. “Come along now, Watson. We haven’t got all day!”
I sighed, quickly grabbing what I could, and followed my friend.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
LEAVING THE METROPOLIS
At Holmes’s request, Mrs Hudson had secured the services of a clarence, so both our belongings and ourselves could be easily accommodated.
After paying the driver in advance, Holmes said little more as we drove through the streets of London. During my mental solitude, I was able to reconsider all the facts of the case thus far. It appeared likely now that Damian Graves, although not the murderer, was involved in the ghastly killings at the Grayson Gallery, or at the very least, knew the person responsible. His relationship to this individual, a woman it seemed, was still unknown, as was how the earlier deaths related to the demise of the grand duke’s manservant, Grigori Andropov, the only connecting factor being the strange markings found both on the painting of the Undying Man at the gallery and the manservant’s flesh.
As I mulled what we knew over and over, I paid scarce attention to our journey but in seemingly short order we reached Charing Cross station and boarded a train bound for Cambridgeshire.
We sat in companionable silence, Holmes and I, and as he read a newspaper he had brought along for the ride, I became content to look from my window as urban austerity gave way to the entirely more bucolic vistas of the countryside.
I have often considered the air and openness of the English countryside something of a panacea in all matters medicinal, and after an hour I began to feel the unease of the last few days slowly leave me. Deciding it had been quiet for long enough, I remarked as much to Holmes.
“It calms the humours, don’t you think?”
“I see nothing calming about it, Watson.”
I frowned. “Surely you can appreciate the lure of nature and the rural idyll?”
Holmes paused in reading his copy of The Times, and conceded to lower it so he could stare at me over the fold in the paper. “There is nothing so far from idyllic as the countryside, Watson. Where you see an arboreal paradise, I see only isolation and the propensity for secrets. How many ills have we seen go unremarked and unpunished in a pastoral town or village?”
I conceded there had been more than one occasion, but nonetheless my enthusiasm remained undimmed. The same could not be said of Holmes.
“No, I do not have the romantic notions you speak of, Watson. I much prefer the city. For all its vice and perfidy, London is protected by the law, its agencies of justice close at hand. Out here,” Holmes gestured to the verdant pastures passing by our carriage window, “there are gulfs of the unknown and the untamed.”
“A cheery thought, Holmes,” I said, my mind turning towards our business once more. “So, what do you hope to find at Saint Agatha’s? Some further knowledge of Graves’s involvement with the school, perhaps?”
“The beginning of a thread, Watson,” he said, neatly folding his newspaper and passing it to me.
“What am I looking for, Holmes?” I asked, quickly leafing through the newspaper but finding nothing particularly pertinent. The grand duke’s visit was, of course, assiduously reported on, but nothing further caught my attention.
“Page two,” said Holmes, lighting up his pipe as he absently stared out of the window, “a death at the school.”
I foun
d the article and as I read, I was reminded of the piece remarked upon by Mrs Hudson. Were they one and the same?
“A teacher at Saint Agatha’s was found several weeks ago hanging by the neck. Her body has yet to be claimed by her kin and still resides in the morgue,” I said, relating the story, but not word for word. “An apparent suicide. Ghastly,” I added, “though what has this to do with our current case, Holmes?”
“I’m not sure yet, Watson, but the Graves connection to the school cannot be overlooked.”
“You mentioned you have sent a telegram to the school?”
“Indeed, Watson, to the headmistress, whose brisk reply suggested they would be accommodating with our enquiries.”
“About Graves or the suicide, Holmes?”
“Both.”
“You think they are connected?”
“I don’t believe in coincidence.”
“Do you think it’s foul play?”
“I take great care not to make any assumptions without first determining facts, Watson, but I should like very much to see where it was that the unfortunate schoolmistress took her own life and learn more of Graves’s association with the place. Anything further will depend entirely upon my findings.”
I returned the newspaper, which Holmes folded and put away. “What do you know of Saint Agatha’s?” he asked.
“Very little,” I confessed. “Only what I’ve just read. It is a girls’ school, is it not?”
“It is.”
Holmes held my gaze and I latched onto the implication at once. “You don’t think…?”
“It is not beyond possibility, but merely a theory until proven or otherwise.”
I stroked my moustache at the idea of our murderess having been, or possibly still being, a pupil or teacher at Saint Agatha’s.
“What do they teach at this school?” I asked.
“Reading, writing, arithmetic,” Holmes replied. “And the usual feminine accomplishments of painting and music.”
“It doesn’t stretch to gymnastics then, at least not the calibre of which we saw in Tavistock Street?”
“Improbable,” said Holmes.
