Sherlock Holmes: The London Terrors by William Meikle

by William Meikle

  He stopped to puff hard at his cigar, the action turning his cheeks red and bringing fine beads of sweat to his brow that he had to wipe away before continuing.

  “But I’m straying from the meat of the story. Northwich came to me for help in unloading his cargo the next day, once the hullabaloo had died down. As you can imagine, I was reticent at first, loath to subject my workers to any possible sickness and contagion. But the man eventually offered me silly money, an amount I could not turn down. I lent Northwich six men, and sent them down to the quay to do his bidding. It turned out that they had heard all the stories, and I had to pay them double time to get the job done, but even then I was still handily in front on the deal.

  “I heard the full story the weekend after that. Four of the six men I sent never came back—as I heard it, they were not dead or sick, just ran off to do something other than work anywhere near that boat or anyone involved with it. The two that did return told me that Northwich was only really interested in one bit of his cargo—a long crate. ‘Like a bloody huge coffin’ one of the men described it. They manhandled it onto a ferry to Ellesmere; then it was loaded onto a barge and sent away up the Ship Canal to somewhere in the Cheshire countryside—Northwich’s own country house, at a guess. And that’s the last we heard of the man and his cargo. That was six months past now, and there has been no sight of the man in the city or round the docks since that day. Dashed funny way to run a shipping company, if you ask me.”

  3

  Over the next half-hour—and several more large brandies on Malone’s part—Holmes tried to winkle out any more cogent facts that might be had, but the man had told us the pertinent parts of the story as he knew it. As seemed to be the pattern in this case so far, we were proceeding in a series of small steps, only ever seeing a short distance ahead at any given point.

  Holmes seemed to have been thinking along the same lines. Later that evening we were having a last smoke by the fire in our lodgings before bedding down for the night.

  “It seems we are drawing closer, Watson,” he said. “Albeit ever so slowly. Tomorrow we shall head into the country and try to reach the heart of the matter. I think it is time we paid Lord Northwich a personal visit.”

  The next morning early we caught a train to Crewe, then took a carriage into the leafy lanes of Cheshire. We arrived at Northwich Manor just after noon.

  Chapter Seven

  EF

  The Northwich estate was typical of many in this part of the country in some respects—bounded on the west by the Shropshire Union canal, thick forest to the east and handsome stone walls north and south. We entered through the south gate, a masterpiece of gothic wrought iron that lay open to our passage, and the carriage took us up a long avenue of chestnut and oak that had seen many centuries of traffic pass beneath its branches.

  What was not in any way typical was the obvious lack of upkeep of the grounds themselves. The landed gentry are generally inclined to show other estate owners that they can control and manage their lands, wresting control and pattern from the chaos of nature. Northwich seemed to have abandoned any attempt at doing so—and some time in the past, at that. There were no rolling lawns or manicured knot gardens here—merely unkempt borders and untidy shrubbery. There was no sign of any gardening staff, and the whole area of the grounds looked forlorn and neglected.

  The house itself seemed solid enough as the carriage deposited us in the driveway outside the main door, but after our transport rattled off back toward the gate, we were left standing alone in dead silence, windows black and staring emptily out at us. The building was dour in aspect and far less imposing than I might have expected, given the rumors of the Northwich family fortune earlier in the century. There was no gleaming white sandstone here, no tall turrets. What there was seemed to be a huge expanse of gray granite punctuated by small windows. The whole structure might have been better served had it been perched beside a remote Scottish loch rather than here in the rolling English countryside.

  A mist started to roll up the grounds from the direction of the canal, bringing with it a fell chill that immediately seeped into my bones. Holmes left me in the driveway with the luggage and went quickly up the short run of steps. He rapped hard on the door with the head of his walking cane, the noise echoing like gunfire in the winter air. There was no answer from inside, and no sign of any movement either behind the windows or out in the grounds themselves. For long seconds I thought we had come all this way for no reward, and envisioned a lengthy, cold trudge with the luggage before getting to somewhere we could pick up a carriage. But just as my spirits fell, the door swung open.

  A tall man stood there—obviously a servant given the cut of his suit, the fact that the material was rather threadbare and the garment itself several sizes too large for his thin frame. He was gaunt of aspect, with a high forehead and pinched cheeks, his eyes set back in deep pits under heavy eyebrows that drew the gaze immediately, as they resembled a pair of furry caterpillars crawling across his brow. He looked at us with one of those eyebrows raised in query, but did not speak. It seemed the standards of door keeping in this part of the country were somewhat to be desired.

  Holmes tried to repeat the bravado he had shown at the club the night before.

  “Sherlock Holmes to see Lord Northwich,” he said, loudly, and attempted to step inside. The servant was indeed tall and thin, but he proved to be strong with it, for he blocked Holmes’ progress by the simple expedient of putting his body in the way, and Holmes was unable to push past without it turning into an undignified wrestling match on the doorstep.

  Holmes gave way with good grace and stepped back.

  “Kindly tell your master that Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his companion, Doctor Watson, would like to speak to him on a matter of some importance,” he said, trying a different tactic. It was unclear whether it had worked, for the door was shut, most abruptly, in Holmes’ face, leaving us still standing out in the cold. Everything fell quiet again. The mist from the canal was closer now, fine wisps wafting around us.

  Holmes turned to me and smiled. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

  “You needn’t worry, Watson—we will not have to walk back. We’re nearly there,” he said, and was proved right seconds later when the door opened again and the tall man, still silent, motioned us inside with a wave of his arm. He stepped back to let us pass.

  There was a moment of pure pantomime when the servant grabbed at my valise and by instinct I snatched it away, so quickly that he almost overbalanced before I realized he was trying to be helpful. He bowed somewhat stiffly from the waist, hefted both of our pieces of luggage as if they were weightless, and scuttled off along a long dim hallway, leaving us standing in the doorway.

  “Well, we’re in,” I said. “What now?”

  “Holmes and Watson, I presume?” a voice said to our right.

  3

  I was not exactly sure what kind of chap I expected Northwich to be, but the dapper figure that had spoken did not in any way match the encroaching decrepitude of his estate. He was dressed in a fine tweed suit, his shoes were polished to within an inch of their life, and there was not a hair out of place either in the thick black curls on his head or in the thin, military-style mustache on his upper lip. He looked me square in the eye and shook my hand with a strong, enthusiastic grip. His skin had that tough, almost leathery look often seen in fellows that had spent too long in the sun in hotter climes, and the wrinkles at the side of his eyes and on his neck told me that he was older than he had seemed at first glance.

  “Lord Northwich, I presume?” Holmes said, echoing the man’s welcome.

  “At your service, gentlemen,” he said. “I was expecting company in any case—but this is a delightful surprise.”

  He took our coats and hung them on an empty rack to one side of the hallway before showing us through into an opulently appointed sitting room at the front of the house which had a most welcome fire burning in a grand feature fireplace. A window looked o
ut over the grounds, but the mist had rolled in completely to cover everything in a gray wash such that nothing else of color could be seen.

  At first I could not quite place Northwich’s accent, but as he continued speaking I finally got him pegged—it was there, faint but an unmistakable trace of Irish.

  “I’ll have Jack fetch us some lunch. Shall we have a smoke before we get down to business? I have some rather fine Moroccan cheroots to hand?”

  The man was rambling, and rather nervous, as if our presence had disturbed some smooth plan of action, but he settled after handing out the cheroots and we all lit up.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he said, addressing Holmes. “Your reputation precedes you, of course. But I trust I am not part of an investigation into any nefarious activities. I am, as you see me, a man of honor; a man of my word.”

  “You are right about the quality of your cheroots,” Holmes replied. “As for the rest, that has yet to be proven.”

  If Northwich took offence, he did not show it—indeed he smiled broadly. “You are a plain-speaking man, I see. All the better—I have no time for subterfuge and metaphor.”

  “Then perhaps you might enlighten us as to why you employed them to such great lengths in shipping your cargo from Persia?” Holmes asked, as casually as if he was requesting the time.

  Once again Northwich took it with an easy smile. “Again, straight to the point. Very well—let us talk about the cargo, then. I meant no harm to anyone in that endeavor,” he said. “I needed the thing brought here fast, and I paid handsomely for it to be done expediently. Anything that happened during the course of the trip should be laid at the feet of those I employed, for I had no part of it at any stage.”

  “So you had no part in the deaths? That is your claim?”

  Northwich shrugged, and rarely have I seen so much human suffering so simply and callously dismissed. It was at that moment that I knew I was not going to like this man, despite his easy smile and fine cheroots.

  “I can hardly be held responsible for every case of shipboard sickness,” Northwich said, his smile never slipping. “A great many things have come out of Africa over the centuries—not least of which is fever and disease. Sickness spreads readily enough without the need for human intervention. You are a thinking man, Holmes—you know this.”

  “I also know exactly how simple it is to make a case of poisoning look like something entirely natural,” Holmes replied, with an answering smile of his own. “Believe me when I tell you, I will find out the truth of the matter, one way or the other.”

  Northwich’s smile never wavered. At that moment the servant—Jake—arrived and announced that luncheon was imminent. He set up a buffet lunch on a long cabinet on the far side of the room, moving with a speed and grace that belied his gangling appearance.

  We ate some curried eggs, honey-cured ham and bread that had obviously been baked that very morning. Northwich laughed again when I remarked on the freshness of the fare at hand.

  “I told you, Doctor Watson, I was expecting visitors anyway, and Jake was up and about early making preparations. He does not say much but he is a most effective manservant and caters for all my needs.”

  We had another smoke and a tall glass each of some excellent bitter ale to wash lunch down. I still did not like Northwich’s manner much, but his hospitality suited me well enough that I was able to overlook a certain amount of distaste.

  “Your servant would make a very fine ‘wounded man’, should a spectral apparition be required,” Holmes said, conversationally.

  “I believe I have heard the tales to which you are referring. Jake would indeed make a fine spectral apparition, should the occasion call for it,” Northwich replied. “And if I catch your drift you are once again accusing me of subterfuge. But I assure you, Holmes, Jake was here with me the whole time that the crate was on its long journey back from Persia. I would tell you the whole story now, but as I said, I am expecting guests. Stay for supper—stay for several nights if you will—I promise you the whole tale, warts and all. You may even decide to help me after you have heard it—at least I hope that will be the case.”

  Northwich would say no more at that juncture. We sat there most of the afternoon, making small talk and smoking his cheroots. Holmes tried several conversational gambits in an attempt to get the man to reveal more details of his story, but none of them were successful.

  3

  At five o’ clock Northwich had Jake show us to our rooms, with a request that we join him for supper with his guests at eight.

  My room smelt slightly musty, as if unused for some time and in need of a good airing, but it was well enough appointed, had a fresh fire lit in the grate, and there was hot running water in the adjoining washroom. I took full advantage with a long soak in the tub, shaved and changed into something more formal for the evening to come, and was sitting by the fireplace with a pipe when Holmes knocked and came in.

  “What do you make of our host, Watson?” he asked without preamble as he sat in the chair on the opposite side of the fire and got a pipe of his own going. I had been considering that very same thing while I soaked in the tub.

  “He is hiding something from us; there is no doubt of that. But I can scarcely believe him guilty of multiple murders, or even in being complicit in introducing a disease to those boats, if that is what you are asking me. I do not see that degree of malice in him.”

  Holmes nodded. “Nor do I. He seems a bluff enough cove. But the dead men vex me, Watson. I cannot ascribe the deaths to something so simple as a contagion. There was a degree of intelligence at work on those vessels that suggests guidance. I aim to find out the cause of those deaths—and I still believe it will be found in this house. I intend to take him up on the offer of a longer stay. Are you game?”

  “I am quite relaxed here now, Holmes. I shall smoke his cheroots, drink his ale and smile when I need to,” I replied. “I believe we will also need to keep an eye on that manservant—it strikes me that he might be more at home in a dockside tavern than here in the country. In any case, he may be tall and thin, but he moves like a boxer, and needs some watching.”

  “Again, we are in agreement,” Holmes replied. “I felt the strength in the man’s arms as he prevented me from entering the house earlier. There is firm muscle under those loose clothes, muscle that has been toned through frequent use. A watching brief it is, then—let us spin a web and see what we can trap.”

  Chapter Eight

  EF

  We sat smoking quietly by the fire in a relaxed silence, neither of us feeling the need for idle conversation, both of us watching the patterns of flames and smoke in the fireplace. I rose once to pull close the curtains. All that could be seen outside was a wall of gray—the fog had settled in for a long stay, and the house, both outside and in, sat in deep silence. A gong sounded from the hallway at five minutes to eight, calling us down to supper and breaking the quiet.

  Northwich himself showed us into the dining room—another well-appointed chamber but one that had clearly seen more salubrious days. The rugs underfoot were rather lacking in quality and the old table, though a fine burnished mahogany, was riddled with numerous gouges and scratches that told of a long uncared-for existence. An attempt had been made to disguise the fact with a variety of tablecloths, but these were not quite as clean as they could have been and only served to accentuate the general air of fading decrepitude.

  The tall man—Jake—seemed to be performing all the servants’ duties on his own, but was not unduly strained as there were only five to be served—Northwich, Holmes and myself, and two men I did not recognize until they were introduced. I shook hands with John Richards and Ernest Grimshawe, both men of early middle age with easy smiles and strong grips. They could have been Northwich’s brothers save for the obvious differences in accents.

  I had heard of both of Northwich’s new guests, but all I really knew was that they were rich—very rich, in the case of Grimshawe. They had made their
money, quietly in the most part, in far-flung corners of the Empire in timber, mining or oil. Now it seems they had returned home. If the national newspapers got wind that our three companions were here in the same room at the same time, London would have been rife with speculation as to their intent, for together they wielded the kind of influence that could swing elections and topple governments. As it was, it was left to Holmes and I to try to ascertain any plans they might be hatching—and Holmes was doing little but sitting quietly and observing, at least through the first course of the meal.

  Grimshawe was the most voluble of the three men, a bluff Northerner obviously used to talking more than listening. Over the course of the meal we learned his opinions on politics, the Irish problem, the Boers, India, and cricket—he was particularly fond of cricket. Northwich let the man ramble on for rather too long, but by the time we finished the second course, a rather splendid rack of lamb with potatoes and greens, even he had heard enough. Not quite skillfully enough to avoid slighting Grimshawe, he turned the conversation round to the reason why Holmes and I were present.

  “Mr. Holmes here seems to think I am a master criminal of some kind,” he began, and got a long round of laughter from the other two, and one of Holmes’ stony stares from the far end of the table.

  “It’s the brothel in Dublin, is it?” Richards replied, and the three of them laughed—the kind of jocular bonhomie you see in good friends sharing a private joke. I realized then that these men had known each other for quite some time—perhaps even going so far back as to being boyhood friends. It was no mere chance that they were gathered here this evening.

  “No,” Northwich said after the laughter had died down. “It concerns our trip to Persia.”

  Grimshawe wasn’t quick enough to hide the sharp look he gave Northwich—this was a taboo subject, it seemed, although Richards showed no obvious reaction. Northwich either did not notice Grimshawe’s admonishment, or chose to ignore it, for he ploughed on.