The following morning there was a knock on the door of Mycroft Holmes’s vast office in Great George Street. Tobias was inspecting a railway timetable with some distaste, searching for a train to Bishop’s Stortford.
“There’s a young man here to see you, sir,” said the porter, pausing before the word ‘sir’ because Tobias was so young. “Says he’s got a message for you, so he does.”
A small ragamuffin child of about twelve years peered out from behind the porter’s coat. His hair that had once been blond was now filthy, his clothes were unkempt, and his bare knees were covered in scabs and other signs of battle. His face, with its pale blue eyes, showed that he had nearly recovered from a black eye.
“Who are you?” asked Tobias, remembering a series of younger brothers when he was growing up with the multiplication tables.
“Jaikie’s my name,” said the street urchin. “The Chief said the letter was to be delivered personal.”
“Jaikie who or Jaikie what?” asked Tobias. “Don’t you have a surname?”
“Reckon I lost that somewhere on the way, along with my parents.”
“I see,” said Tobias, “and who’s this Chief of yours when he’s at home?”
“He’s Chief of our gang, the Du Cane Road Irregulars,” said the boy proudly, “his real name’s Cornwell, Ernie Cornwell, but everybody calls him the Chief.”
Tobias remembered that Wormwood Scrubs was situated on Du Cane Road in Hammersmith. “This Du Cane Road, Jaikie, is that one word or two? And is it a ‘c’ or a ‘k’ in the middle?”
Tobias was so used to writing notes in Mycroft’s office that he was taking a record of this strange conversation.
“Dunno,” said Jaikie. “Just dunno, never thought about it.”
“Don’t they teach you spelling at school?”
“Don’t go to school no more. I ain’t been to school for years now.”
“Surely you can see it’s important to be able to spell?”
“Don’t see why. Hardly nobody I know can spell. Doesn’t matter, does it? That geezer in them Gospels who fed the five thousand and all that stuff, nobody says he could spell, do they? Matthew and Mark and them other two don’t say nothing about the Jesus bloke doing spelling at school, do they?”
Jaikie paused, and looked briefly at Tobias. Then he moved in for the kill.
“I had an auntie, I did, who used to read us those bloody Gospel things or whatever they were called. Every Sunday afternoon after dinner, it was. So I know what I’m talking about, don’t I? Anyway,” he stopped briefly and rummaged about in what might have once been a pocket in his trousers and pulled out an envelope.
“Do you want this letter or not, Mister?” he said.
“Of course,” said Tobias. “Who’s it from?”
“Dunno, the Chief said it was from a friend of Chalky’s in the nick.”
“Who’s Chalky?” said Tobias, who was growing confused with this west London argot.
“Chalky the Shotgun White? Everybody knows who Chalky is. He’s the bloke who runs Wormwood Scrubs, in’t he?”
“You mean he’s the Governor, the official in charge?”
“Cor blimey,” said the urchin Jaikie, “you don’t know much, you people down here in the West End! Chalky’s not the official Governor, the fool with the big office, he doesn’t run nothing. Chalky’s the chief prisoner who runs the jail, fixes the warders, makes sure there’s regular supplies of cigarettes and booze coming in. They say he once brought a load of whores in for a bet on New Year’s Eve. You want anything done up the Scrubs, Chalky’s the man for you. Some of his methods might not be to everybody’s taste, but he pays the Chief good money for our services, a fair wage, I’ll say that for him. Anyway, here’s your letter.”
Tobias suddenly realised that in fifteen months of working for Mycroft Holmes, he had never seen his handwriting. Come to that, he had never seen him write anything at all. He, Tobias, had been scribe and amanuensis.
“Dear Tobias,” the letter began in Mycroft’s immaculate copperplate, “you see how far I have fallen when I have to write my own letters. I hope that this means of communication will prove fruitful. I have had two meetings with the Treasury Solicitor since my incarceration in this horrid place and on both occasions there has been one of the few honest warders, men uncorrupted by the criminals who actually run this prison, listening to our conversation and taking notes. They told me anything I said could get passed on to Inspector Robinson. It has been impossible for me to make any requests or to pass on the results of my deliberations since I have been here. Please remind me on my release to put prison reform at the very top of my priorities as Auditor General of all Government Departments. This place is a disgrace, especially the food. But I digress.”
Tobias looked up and saw that Jaikie had wandered away from the door and was now sitting happily in Mycroft’s chair at Mycroft’s desk.
“Bloody big desk,” said Jaikie cheerfully. “The Chief’s got a broken table with dodgy legs but it’s got nothing on this!”
“I don’t think you should look at any of those papers, Jaikie,” said Tobias. “Can you read and write and so on, what with not being at school on a regular basis?”
“Don’t you get rude with me, Mister. Course I can read and write, can’t I? That auntie taught me, the one that was keen on them Gospels.”
“I see,” said Tobias. “Perhaps you’d better have a Turkish Delight.”
“There are a number of vital areas for investigation,” Mycroft’s letter continued. ‘I presume that the Count is behind all this. Does anybody know where he is? I believe that somehow or other the gang must have obtained a duplicate key to my rooms. I believe the man coming to see me was a naval engineer called Jobson, Cornelius Jobson. I have no recollection of seeing him the other day. The real Jobson was completely bald with a head like an egg. Could you ask Mrs Hudson if she noticed the colour of his hair, if he had any? He went to work for the Fore River Shipyard at Quincy, Massachusetts where they build ships for the US Navy. You should contact a man called Cooke, Henry J Cooke, Senior Vice President of Pinkertons in Washington DC, and ask him if the real Jobson is still there. The man Cooke owes me a favour.
“I have one other theory which is too sensitive to mention even in this unorthodox means of correspondence. Quite soon, I fear, we may be sending messages in hollow sticks, like the tribesmen of old. I want you to send a message in my name as the Auditor of all Government Departments to the Head of Personnel at Scotland Yard and his equivalents in the Army, the Navy, the Civil Service and the Customs and Excise. The message concerns all those of the rank of Sergeant and above in Scotland Yard and the other places. If you are not already acquainted with the ranks elsewhere, you will find their equivalents in the other Government services in the Manual of Government Departments on the shelf next to my Bank of England files. The letter should say this is part of a regular inspection by the Government Auditor’s Office of the financial affairs of Government servants to root out possible corruption and financial malpractice. The people you write to are to furnish my office with the details of all bank accounts, branches and numbers if possible, by the end of the week.
“I am told the messenger will wait for your reply. Please establish a means of getting in touch with me urgently for the despatch of further correspondence.
Yours, Mycroft”
Tobias looked up and saw that Jaikie had polished off the first bowl of Turkish Delight and was working his way steadily through the second.
“Bloody good, these things,” Jaikie said, waving one in the air like a captured trophy, “what are they called?”
“They’re called Turkish Delight,” Tobias replied.
“Christ!” said the urchin, dropping his Delight back in the bowl as if it were contaminated, “you mean those filthy Turkish geezers with their greasy hair and disgusting manners make these things? It’s enough to put you off your grub, that is. Bloody Turks!”
Tobias assured him that
Turkish Delight was just a name. Jaikie still left them alone, eyeing the remaining sweets in the bowl with great suspicion.
“You finished your letter, have you? The Chief said I was to take the reply straight back.”
“That’s very kind of you. My name’s Tobias, by the way.”
“Tobias? Tobias? Don’t think I never met a Tobias before. Good name, though. Do you want to write a reply?”
“Of course,” said Tobias and dashed off a quick response. He acknowledged receipt of Mycroft’s instructions and the news that Inspector Lestrade was hunting for the locksmith who had installed the new device in Mycroft’s rooms. He promised to ask the housekeeper about the corpse’s hair. He did not mention that the Committal Hearing was set for the following day. Then he paused.
“Jaikie, I need your help.”
“Fire away,” said the ragamuffin.
“This is the problem. If my contact in the Scrubs wants to contact me, he asks Chalky White who asks The Chief. Is that right?”
Jaikie nodded.
“How do we make it work as quickly the other way, if I or my colleagues want to get in touch with our friend in a hurry?”
“You mean faster than one of you getting stuck in a cab in the traffic on the way up to the Scrubs and finding a member of our gang?”
“I do.”
Jaikie thought for a moment, his little face wreathed in frowns. “I think I’ve got it,” he said with a grin, “it’s easy once you think about it. I’ll have to clear it with the Chief, but I’m sure it will be OK. We’ll just put a member of the Du Cane Road Irregulars on duty outside your office here and anywhere else you might want need us in the evening. The bloke will change over every four hours or so. Once you bring out a message for the Scrubs, he’ll be off.”
“But what will the poor boys do all the time they’re waiting? Won’t they be bored?”
“Don’t worry about that. We’re all used to waiting. Pick a few pockets, whistle at the pretty girls, that sort of thing, we’ll be fine.”
“I’ll pay you the same rates as Chalky pays your Chief, Jaikie. Would that be satisfactory?”
“Excellent. The service should start later this morning. Now, if you’ve finished your reply, I’ll be off. Can’t keep your friend waiting, can we?”
Tobias added a line to the effect that a reliable means of communication had now been set up. Jaikie trotted off back to the Scrubs whistling Onward Christian Soldiers, Marching as to War. Tobias wondered if the Auntie who taught Jaikie to read and write had included hymns in her curriculum.
*
Tobias had nearly finished composing his wire to the man from Pinkerton’s when another visitor burst through the door.
“Inspector Lestrade!” Tobias rose to shake the policeman by the hand. “How good to see you again. And look, I have great news. We’ve had a letter, a proper letter, from Mycroft!”
“How the devil,” Lestrade began and started to read the missive from the Scrubs. “Mycroft’s powers are obviously unaffected by his surroundings and he raises some very pertinent questions. But how on earth did the thing get here? Has the man got a tame crow up there in Hammersmith, flying down here with letters in its beak?”
Tobias explained about the visit of young Jaikie and the activities of the Du Cane Road Irregulars. One of their number, he told Lestrade, should be on duty just outside the premises very soon, waiting to carry messages to West London.
“Capital! Capital!” cried Lestrade, slapping his hand on his thigh with great vigour. “I remember those Baker Street boys Mr Sherlock used to use from time to time. Criminals all, every last man jack of them, but good to have on your side in a crisis!”
“I am just writing to the Pinkertons man in Washington,” said Tobias. “Then I’m going to write to all those Government Departments as Mycroft says in his letter. I was going to go to Bishop’s Stortford to look for the dead man’s brother who did the identification, but I’ll have to catch a later train.”
“I tell you what,” said Lestrade, helping himself to one of the few remaining Turkish Delight, “I’ve finally got hold of that locksmith. He’s been on holiday but he’s back in three days time. I’ll go to Bishop’s Stortford for you.” Privately, though he didn’t say so, Lestrade didn’t think Tobias would ever find anything out in the real world. The lad had been to school, to University, then locked up here all day with Mycroft. The boy would be doing well, in Lestrade’s view, if he even found the railway station.
“There’s a meeting tonight in Mr Holmes’s rooms,” Lestrade continued. “I’ll be back for that.” He wandered to the window and peered down into the street. “Did you say one of those ragamuffins was going to be on duty outside? There’s a red headed boy in filthy clothes playing with a top just across the street. Do you think that’s one of them?”
Tobias joined him at his look-out post. From the opposite side of Great George Street the boy saw the two figures and waved at them cheerfully.
“That’s our boy!” cried Lestrade. “Cheeky monkey!” He stopped suddenly in the middle of the room. He was twirling his hat round very slowly in his hands, his mouth slightly open. Tobias reckoned the Inspector might be thinking. Anything was possible.
“That’s it!” said Lestrade finally. “It’s like having men under your command again! I thought of this in the middle of the night not long ago. I sat up in bed and said ‘Robinson’ loud enough to wake up Carrie the wife. ‘Do you mean the Barley Water people dear?’ she said, ‘we’ve got some in a cupboard downstairs.’
“I’m afraid to say I ignored my dear spouse on that occasion, Tobias.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at, Inspector.”
“Sorry, young man. My point is this. I have long suspected that Inspector Robinson may be linked to the Count in some way. Consider the speed of the arrest, the fact, as Mycroft says in his letter, that he has his people listening in on any conversations Mycroft has with his solicitor. I’m going to have a word with that young man from the Irregulars. We’ll have that monstrous Robinson followed all day and all night till the matter is resolved. I shall go and organise it this minute!”
*
There was a pale October sunshine fighting with the fog in the streets around Bow Street Magistrates Court the following morning. Two interesting pieces of news had come out at the meeting in Mycroft’s flat the evening before. Inspector Lestrade reported that nobody had been sighted at the address given as that of Cornelius Jobson. The property had indeed been rented by a Mr Jobson, but of the physical Cornelius or his brother there was no record at all. Mrs Hudson reported that the corpse, far from being as bald as an egg, had a full head of curly, if rather bloody, brown hair. Tobias was howled down when he suggested tentatively that the man might have been wearing a wig.
The magistrate on duty at Bow Street, Fraser Whitlock, was a tall thin man who had trained in the law. He had two interests in life, playing the stock market which he did with great success, and playing golf where he did not enjoy any success at all. The ball had an annoying habit of never ending up where he wanted it to go.
Mrs Hudson was present in the court room, her blonde curls held firmly in position above those bright blue eyes. She threw Thomas Montague Smith the smile her husband had unfortunately referred as ‘the best smile in the world’ and hoped she had not gone too far. The Treasury Solicitor beamed back, but his spirits were low this morning. Just the sight of the Treasury barrister Gervase Morrel plunged him into despair. If Mycroft were not granted bail, he said to himself, that man will never work for the Government again.
Sir Lionel Cadogan, Eton, the Guards, four years in the Royal Household, counsel for the prosecution, took Inspector Robinson through his evidence very quickly. At this rate, Montague Smith said to himself, the magistrate will be on the golf course before lunch. And Morrel, having to rise far earlier than he expected, did not begin well. His delivery was uncertain as he began his application for bail, reading from the depositio
ns of various Ministers of the Crown. He seemed to get more deferential the more senior the politician. By the time he got to the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s eloquent plea for bail to be granted and a vital member of the government machine returned to his post until the trial took place, he was far more fawning and obsequious than Uriah Heep at his worst. And when it came to the Prime Minister himself, well, Montague Smith said ruefully to Tobias afterwards, he was heaps worse than Heep could ever have been.
This behaviour did not go down well with the judge. He was, as Tobias, sitting next to Mrs Hudson, noticed, growing more and more irritated. Towards the end of Morrel’s reading of the appeal for bail from Number Ten Downing Street, the magistrate cracked.
“I have had enough of this, Mr Morrel!” he cried, staring at the unfortunate advocate. “Your arguments have no purchase with me, sir. You are attempting to bully this court by the number and seniority of the politicians you can enlist in your cause. That is not material to this case. We are here to consider whether a man should stand trial at the Old Bailey on a murder charge. You have presented no evidence germane to the prosecution case. The executive, through you, sir, are trying to put pressure on the judiciary. That is unconstitutional. The independence of the law must be upheld at all times. Your request for bail is dismissed. The case shall go forward to a full trial.”
With that the magistrate gathered his papers and swept from the room, thinking of the long downhill run to the first hole. Mycroft had stood in his place throughout the proceedings, still as a statue. The Treasury Solicitor was staring at his brief. Mrs Hudson was on the verge of tears.
“What’s going to happen to poor Mr Mycroft now, Tobias,” she whispered. Tobias had no answer. For the time being Mycroft Holmes would have to remain incarcerated in Wormwood Scrubs under the care of the wardens and under the wing of Chalky ‘The Shotgun’ White.
*
“Is this all you’ve got? You can’t be serious. You are serious. God help us all!” Thomas Montague Smith had come to Grays Inn to find a new barrister to represent Mycroft in court. He was in the chambers of Charles Augustus Pugh, one of London’s brightest younger barristers. Montague Smith had remembered his role in a famous trial a few years back when Pugh and his investigator friend Lord Francis Powerscourt had successfully defended a solicitor charged with murdering his wife’s lover. Forgery and forgers in the art world had been at the centre of the case. Society matrons had queued for hours to gain admission to court on the last days of the trial and had talked of little else at their dinner parties for weeks afterwards. Now Pugh was riffling through the few sheets of paper Montague Smith had brought with him that might serve as the basis of some kind of defence.
The Mycroft Holmes Omnibus Page 7
