“I have been in the doldrums since Boxing Day, as well you know,” Holmes replied. “I must have work—and in the absence of a client, your mystery will do just as well.”
“But there is no criminality involved—” I began, only to be interrupted.
“Where there is illicit cargo, there is always a potential for the criminal element to seize an opportunity,” Holmes replied. “Besides, my interest is piqued, and the day is full of possibilities. Shall we?”
I yielded to the inevitable.
Ten minutes later we were in a carriage headed east to the docks.
3
I have seen Holmes in all his many and varied moods, and this current one was one I recognized all too well; he had the scent of a case in his nostrils, and his great brain was starting to tick over. A thin smile played on his lips, and his eyes were full of life and vitality, a child eager for a promised treat. In truth, I felt relief to see him like this, for I had indeed known of his “doldrums” in recent weeks, and feared for his health as he had slipped deeper into the languorous state that had in the past seen him take to the needle for solace. A case—if that what this was fated to be—was exactly what was required, even if it did mean a certain degree of discomfort on my part as we rattled through a bitterly cold morning in thick fog.
The streets were quieter than normal, day-to-day business being driven indoors in search of respite from the biting cold. The fog seemed to permeate everywhere, and during the journey I lost most of the feeling in my feet and hands, despite having taken the precaution of thick socks and heavy gloves.
Holmes, on the other hand, did not seem the slightest bit discomforted. “A spot of early lunch is in order, I think; don’t you, Watson?”
As I disembarked the carriage I saw that I knew exactly where Holmes had brought us—not to the warren of canals, quays and warehouses that made up the docks themselves, but to one of the places where business, both licit and illicit, could be transacted. It was also the purveyor of some of the finest-kept ales in the city, and I perked up considerably as I followed Holmes into the long bar of the Prospect of Whitby.
I had been in the bar before, both with Holmes while working on cases, and twice on my own while meeting a local medical man who needed some moral support with the heavy caseload he had undertaken. I never envied his work in an area rife with disease and social problems, over and above the daily injuries that came with working a busy dock. While I was fond of the old building, I had no desire of my own to spend more time here than was necessary.
Just as the fog had cleared the streets of the business quarter of the city, so too had it driven many of the dockhands into the bar in search of some shelter. Despite it being not yet noon, the bar was as busy as any West End establishment on a Friday night, and several of the patrons looked to be rather far removed from sobriety already.
“Order us some lunch, Watson,” Holmes said. “I shall not be long.”
Two of the locals shifted over to make room for me at a long table, although neither showed any signs of wishing to engage in conversation. I placed an order for ale and pies, lit up a smoke, and watched my friend at work.
Not for the first time, Holmes amazed me with his ability to move through a room and, while ostensibly only making light conversation, garner almost precisely the information he had been seeking. While I sipped at a fine—if rather too strong for lunchtime—porter and waited for our pies to arrive, Holmes flitted here and there. Coins changed hands, and handshakes were firmly traded. I knew that small favors would be promised—Holmes had contacts with both the police and legal authorities that might prove useful at some date to many in the room. Despite the rough-and-ready patrons, there was not the slightest hint of any animosity—Holmes was not seen as an enemy in these parts, having helped many across the city whom the police would merely shun. His reputation has earned him the status almost akin to that of a folk hero, and I have no doubt that in centuries far ahead of us, the name of Sherlock Holmes might be related in tales in much the same manner as that of Dick Whittington is today.
Such were the thoughts going through my mind as I sat at the bar. Holmes returned as the food arrived—steaming hot pork pies with mash and cabbage that did much to dispel the memory of the cold outside. I was contemplating another pint of porter when Holmes dashed all hope of my longer-term comfort.
“Finish up, Watson. We have a name—a man to see who may shed further light on the tale.”
I gulped down my ale and followed Holmes back out onto the riverside track.
Chapter Three
EF
The man to whom Holmes had been led, Mr. Edward Brownlie, proved to be an old sea dog of indeterminate age living in one of the tumbledown cottages that were scattered like farthings at a wedding through the marshland at the easternmost extent of the docks. It looked like nothing less than a place where sailors were left to die when failing health or age meant they were no longer useful at sea.
Brownlie’s cottage seemed to be upward of a hundred years old, and in need of some repair in short order to prevent it sinking into the sodden ground. The interior was in little better condition than the outside, having a hard earth floor that felt spongy underfoot, and walls that showed signs of rampant mold and rot, shored up with scraps of timber collected from the jetsam on the riverbank. Given the state of his lodgings, it was no surprise that Mr. Brownlie was not in the best of health, although it was not, as I might have expected, his respiratory system that was failing him most. When he turned toward us after showing us inside, I saw open sores and lesions across his scalp and cheeks, his skin red and shining as if half peeled away. I had seen similar lesions in severe cases of rubella, and was concerned that this might be something of a similar nature. Brownlie backed away as my medical training kicked in and I moved forward to check his condition.
“Stay away, man,” he said. “I might be contagious.”
“It’s all right,” I replied. “I am a doctor.”
He laughed bitterly. “So was I, once upon a time; it did not save me, and it will not save you.”
He would not let me any closer, and motioned that we should sit. We grouped in a tight huddle around a small fire that heated only the smallest corner of the room. Brownlie was swaddled inside an overcoat that looked several sizes too large for him, and looked as miserable as any man I have ever seen.
“What brings you to this Godforsaken hovel, gentlemen?” he asked, his voice a throaty whisper. “What could you possibly need from me?”
Suddenly I was reminded of poor old Jock at the funeral, and I was wishing I had stayed by the fire in Baker Street rather than have to listen to the sorry tale of yet another broken man. Holmes seemed to sense my discomfort and took control.
“I need to hear what happened after you took on the cargo in Valletta,” he said.
The livid color fell away from Brownlie’s face, as if he’d just been slapped, and he fell into a fit of coughing that I feared might not stop. Just as I was about to rise to tend to him he managed several breaths and waved me aside before addressing Holmes directly.
“I wondered when someone would come asking about that cursed boat. But if that is the tale that is to be told, I will need some stiffening. There is a bottle of rum in the cupboard in the scullery,” he said, looking at me this time. “For medicinal use, you understand?”
Holmes motioned that I should do as he asked.
The scullery—although it scarcely merited the name—was in worse condition than the living area. Something scurried in a corner—I had no inclination to investigate its exact nature—and I had to navigate a large spider’s web to get to the rum bottle. I found three glasses that could be made almost clean by the judicious use of a handkerchief, and returned to find Holmes and Brownlie lighting up pipes by the fire. By the time I seated myself and had a pipe of my own lit, the old sailor was making steady inroads into the rum.
“Valletta?” Holmes said softly, and that was enough to start the ta
le.
3
“I served in the Queen’s Navy for many a year,” Brownlie began. “And I have been in some rough spots, I can tell you. But I have never been aboard a boat so full of fear in all my time at sea as I was on that trip out of Valletta.
“The trouble started almost as soon as we left Malta. This was no well-managed naval vessel—this was a rough-and-tumble tramp steamer—the sort of place you end up when you have fallen from grace but cannot get the sea out of your bones.
“The crew was surly at the best of times, as like to start a fight as to do any actual seamanship. As ship’s doctor I spent far too much of my time stitching up knife wounds, tending to bashed heads—and drinking more of this gut-rot with only a passing resemblance to good rum than was healthy for me. As you can probably guess already, it was not the happiest of boats, and bringing that crate on board was never going to improve matters any. But I heard tell that the Captain had over fifty pounds in his pocket to keep his mouth shut, and that kind of money lets a man ignore a lot of misery. And that particular Captain surely did ignore a whole heap of misery over the weeks to come.
“The first two men fell sick afore we even reached Gibraltar. The crew had heard the dockside tales in Valletta of the ship that came over from Tripoli, and we had a full-scale mutiny on our hands at the mouth of the Med when the sick men upped and died despite my best efforts to save them.
“The Captain solved the crew crisis in the simplest of manners as soon as we docked in Gibraltar—he fired nearly the whole bally lot of them; just left them on the dockside, hired a new crew and sailed away counting the money in his pocket. Half the men we left behind were already sick, but as you know, sick sailors in the Med are ten to a penny and nobody would notice a few more.
“On the boat itself, it was a different matter. I was run off my feet tending to an ever-worsening outbreak of boils and sores. I put it down to diet, and had the Captain put in to Porto for fresh fruit. But by the time we arrived at Quiberon in Brittany, more than half the men were confined to their bunks, and there were scarcely enough able-bodied hands to keep the boat moving in the right direction.
“It was around then I started to hear tell of the wounded man.”
He stopped and took a long slug of rum. I had barely sipped at mine—it was dark, too sugary, and heavily spiced with pepper, so much so that I found it almost undrinkable. Brownlie had no such qualms, pouring himself another large measure and tossing half of it back before continuing.
“At first I put it down to tall tales—there is nowt sailors like better than scaring themselves silly on long night watches, and a story about a dead man walking the hold and moaning was not anything particularly unique in the annals of such stories. That is, until I saw it for myself.”
3
He stopped—his pipe had gone out and it took him several seconds to start it going again, more than long enough for me to notice the dead silence outside and the creeping chill even despite the fire. Holmes had sat quiet throughout, puffing on his short-stemmed briar, his gaze never leaving Brownlie’s face.
Brownlie took to another fit of coughing after a few puffs from his pipe, and knocked back more of the rum before he felt able to continue. I did not quite know what ailed the man, but it was obvious, to my eye at least, that he was not very far from joining old Jock Travers in the long sleep.
He saw me looking.
“Yes, sir. As one doctor to another, I know exactly how it looks. And I am ready for it—ready and willing, for these past few months have been more than a man should bear. But I am getting ahead of myself.…”
“We were only three hours out of Quiberon, in heavy seas, heading for the Channel, when I was called down to the main hold. Now usually I gave the cargo areas a wide berth—the crew did not need a doctor wandering around while they were working—so I had not been down there at all on this current trip.
“I arrived to find a man unconscious on the deck, bleeding profusely from a scalp wound. There were two others standing over the prone body—Greeks, I think, although they responded to good English cursing well enough. I sent one to fetch the Captain and the other to fetch anything they could find to keep the injured man dry and warm while I treated him. They left me alone, down there in the dark.”
Brownlie stopped again, and took to the rum with a vengeance as if in need of some Dutch courage. I realized we needed to hear the story from him quickly, before stupor stopped him in his tracks. Fortunately he started up again without any coaxing.
“I managed to stop the bleeding, but the man below me was out cold, an egg-sized bruise on his forehead. When I heard the first moan, I thought for a second it had come from him, but when I looked down he was still out, breathing in rapid, shallow breaths that were almost sobs.
“The moan came again, from somewhere deeper in the hold. My first thought was that there was another injured man down there with me. I made the unconscious man as comfortable as I could and headed off to search out the source of the moaning.
“It grew louder, a groan as if a man was in great pain.
“‘Hello?’ I called out, but received no reply. I was starting to have an idea of the direction as the moan came again. I followed the sound into the darkness, all the while with the boat heaving and tossing, threatening to throw me into the crates and barrels of our cargo.
“One last moan, louder than before, led me straight to the source.
“I stood before a long coffin-shaped crate. Someone had tried to open it, and recently, for one of the side panels was loose and some gauze-like material poked through the new opening and lay strewn around on the deck, as if torn in a frenzy. The boat bucked again and I fell against the crate, gripping more of the gauze and tearing a chunk of it away in my hand.
“At almost the same second, the moan came again, and this time there was no question of the source.
“It came from inside the crate.”
“The next thing I remember I was in my cabin, slugging down some rum, when the Captain found me. He tried to order me to go back down into the dark, but I cursed him for a scoundrel and refused point-blank. Eventually he had some men bring the injured crewman up to me and I patched him up, right as rain.
“Then, as soon as we made dock in Portsmouth, I walked onto the quay and never went back to sea. And I have no intention of doing so either—I’ll see the rest of my days out here, however short they might be.
“But it did for me anyway—that thing in the crate did for me good and proper, as you can see for yourselves. If it is that boat you are after, gents, I hope you find it. But do not, whatever you do, go aboard. Burn the damnable thing. Burn it to the waterline and spit on it as it sinks.”
3
It was obvious the tale was finished. Holmes sat quietly, puffing on his pipe. Like me, he had scarcely touched the rum, although Brownlie was once again drinking more than enough for all three of us.
“You disembarked in Portsmouth? So when did it reach the Thames—do you know?” Holmes asked.
“Oh, she weren’t coming here, sir, thanks be to God. She were heading for Liverpool last I heard—some Lord up north was paying for the passage.”
Brownlie was slurring his words badly now, and had slumped even deeper inside the old overcoat, mumbling to himself.
“One last thing,” Holmes said. “I don’t suppose you can remember anything more about the gauze that came out of the crate?”
The old man cackled. “I can do better than that, gents. In a box on the mantel—I had it in my hand when I got back to my room, so I kept it—a small keepsake to remind me never to leave dry land again.”
He coughed and spluttered, flecks of blood on his lips, but still would not let me approach him to check on his well-being. Instead I went to check the mantel. He had a small collection of knickknacks from his sailing days—some shells, shiny stones, a jet necklace, a fine scrimshaw pipe—and a small tin box. I was well aware of the risk of infection, and ensured I wore my gloves as I opene
d it. Inside lay a six-inch strip of off-white gauze—cotton by the look of it, and of some age.
“Put it away, Watson,” Holmes said. “We will examine it properly back in Baker Street—if Mr. Brownlie has no objections to us taking it?”
Brownlie was past having objections for the day. He had slumped into the anticipated stupor, rum bottle clutched to his chest, and snoring like a bull elephant in musth. We left him to it and headed back out into the fog.
Chapter Four
EF
I was starting to form a clearer idea of what we had stumbled upon. A crate—contents indeterminate—had been brought out of the East and it was considered illicit enough to be smuggled through Tripoli and Valletta before heading for these shores. It most probably belonged to Lord Northwich—or at least was headed into his possession—and everyone who had come in contact with it was dead or dying a lingering death from a disease that was as yet unidentifiable in nature.
“Is this not something that lies in Mycroft’s domain?” I asked Holmes. We had walked back to the Prospect of Whitby in cold fog before finding a carriage and we were now making a somewhat miserable way back to Baker Street. Holmes had been lost in thought most of the way, staring into the far distance, the tin box sitting unopened in his lap. “There is the risk to public safety to consider, after all.”
“If it does indeed turn out to be a new disease or outbreak of some kind, then rest assured, Watson, we will dump it in Mycroft’s lap post-haste. But what better way to hide a crime than to ensure that there is widespread rumor of an associated sickening—or of a supernatural event? We have seen such subterfuge before, have we not? Let us make a study of this gauze in the first instance—it might tell us more than any old sea dog’s rum-soaked stories ever could in any case.”
It was late afternoon by the time we were back at the apartments, and Mrs. Hudson was prepared, treating us to thick soup and some fresh bread. That and a roaring fire soon had the feeling back in my extremities, but Holmes was in no mood for sitting by the fireside that evening. As soon as the table was cleared he went to his workbench, opened the tin box and, with the aid of his large glass, started a minute examination of the strip of gauze.
Sherlock Holmes: The London Terrors by William Meikle Page 11
