It is Sunday. The upper classes have established routines on the Sabbath. Usually, the Stonefields would attend church and then either visit friends or receive them in their home. But Sherlock is certain that word of the death of this invalid, somehow deeply connected to the Governor and whom he regularly visits, would have been sent to him almost immediately. He will know by this morning. Holmes doubts the Stonefields will be going anywhere after services today. Sir Ramsay will have locked himself in his study, hiding his distress from his wife.
The boy takes a moment to repeat his account of the occurrences in Hounslow to the apothecary, almost as if he can’t believe them. The old man listens patiently. A big tear wells up in each of his eyes. “Dear, dear,” he says to himself. When Sherlock finishes, they are both quiet for a moment. Then Holmes tells him what he intends to do now.
“You plan to go directly to Mayfair and speak to the Governor?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But, why would he see you, and even if he did, why would he speak to you? And if he speaks to you, why would he want to dwell on what is obviously a tragic occurrence for him?
“He will.”
The apothecary thinks for a few seconds. “Ah,” he finally says, and the wisp of a smile slightly turns up the ends of his mouth.
But when Sherlock goes out the door, Sigerson Trismegistus Bell is disturbed. The boy is hiding something from him. He can feel it.
Holmes arrives in Mayfair in the early afternoon, well after church is over. He doesn’t hesitate as he crosses the park in Hanover Square and moves across the street and right up to the big purple house and its fancy front door with the crescent window above it. He knocks.
It takes a while for someone to come, and when that gentleman does, he looks through the peephole for a very long while before he opens the door slightly. It is the butler, though only one eye is visible.
“Go away, boy!” he commands through the crack.
“I want to speak with Sir Ramsay Stonefield.”
“Speak with him? You? Not in your lifetime!”
“If you do not announce me, you will do your master a grave disservice. Just show him my card.”
Sherlock has taken one of his master’s small cards –
SIGERSON TRISMEGISTUS BELL
APOTHECARY AND ALCHEMIST
DENMARK STREET, LONDON
and thoroughly scratched out the old man’s name and written another, a single Christian name, on the other side. He shoves it through the crack toward the butler.
“I happen to know that Sir Ramsay is feeling under the weather today,” says the boy.
“How could you –”
“He is in his study with the door closed. I am guessing you haven’t seen him all day. I know exactly how he is feeling, and why.”
The butler hesitates for a moment. Finally, he reaches through the door and takes the card between a thumb and forefinger, barely grasping it in his gloved hand, as if it were a piece of horse dung retrieved from the street. He quickly transfers it to a silver plate. “I shall show it to Sir Ramsay with my extreme apologies, and once he has shunned you, I shall return with two footmen and the groom and pitch you, with great violence, into the street.” He waits for the poorly dressed boy’s response, but the lad merely stands waiting. The door closes with a slam.
The butler is gone for less than a minute. He returns with a good deal of speed and opens the door abruptly. His face shows no emotion. “Follow me, sir!” he exclaims and leads Sherlock down the black-and-white tiled hallway to the stairs, then up its curving elegance to Sir Ramsay’s study. Thrusting the door open, the butler exclaims, “The unnamed gentleman who handed me that card, sir!”
“Thank you, Brett. You may close the door.”
“Yes, sir.”
There is silence as the Governor, seated behind his huge mahogany desk, examines Sherlock. The man’s eyes look red, his big gray sideburns and mustachios disheveled. His cravat is sloppily tied, as if he had undone it and then done it up again by himself. He is holding Holmes’s card in his hand.
“How,” he says in a very low voice, looking down at it, “do you know the name Angela?”
“I –”
“Are you the one who blackmailed me?”
They have never met.
“No, sir, but I know him well.”
“Know him!” he pounds his fist on the desk.
“And I know all about your situation, everything,” he lies. “I was there, in Hounslow last night, when she died.”
“You were there!” Sir Ramsay’s face grows red with anger and he glares up at Sherlock.
“But I have played no direct part in this.”
The Governor’s face softens. “My poor, abandoned daughter,” he says and looks as if he is about to cry.
Daughter!
“I know about the other one too,” says the boy, lying again.
“Our Gabriella!”
Our?
“Yes, sir.”
The Governor gets to his feet and turns his back. He stares out the tall, latticed window over Hanover Square and Mayfair.
“Born with the faces of monsters! One cannot have that you know, not in our society. Lady Stonefield cannot be the mother of monsters. It will NOT do!” He turns and looks at Sherlock again. “Our society be damned, I say! But, I could not do it to her; I could not have her ridiculed. Lady Stonefield is a wonderful soul, you know. We have been through much with this.”
There is a sudden knock on the door, though no one enters.
“Ramsay?” It is his wife on the other side.
“Yes, dear?” he calls out, glaring at Sherlock and putting his finger to his lips.
“Is everything all right? I heard shouting?”
“Not to worry, my dear. I am merely having a short conversation with a colleague, a little heated when it comes to a few fiscal issues but nothing to concern yourself about.”
“On the Sabbath, Ramsay?”
Stonefield looks unsure of what to say, but finds the words. “That is the cause of the shouting, my dear. I am telling this chap that we will attend to this tomorrow. I was about to have Brett escort him out. I shall see you in the drawing room in a few moments. Is that all right, my love?”
“Yes, of course.”
Her footsteps fade as she walks away.
“You haven’t told her?” asks Sherlock “Why not?”
The Governor advances on him abruptly. “I thought you said you knew everything about my situation, sir. It does not sound like it. You would not have said that, had you known. I do not know who you are or what your purpose is, but Brett shall see you out this instant. If I ever even catch a glimpse of you –”
Say something or all is lost.
“It is in your interest to hear what I have to say, sir.”
The Governor pauses.
“You have thirty seconds.”
“You are correct. I do not know all about your situation. In fact, when I arrived, I knew just enough to get me through your door. I have learned a great deal more during the last minute or two.”
“You have?”
“But here is what I do know, and it is of the greatest importance to you. I indeed know who is blackmailing you. He is a young man named Malefactor, though that is not his real name. I saw his true surname on an estate agent’s contract just a year or more ago. It was difficult to read, scrawled as it was in his hand. But I committed that scrawl to memory and wrote it down afterward. I now believe his real name is Moriarty.”
“Moriarty?”
“Yes. He controlled a street gang of adolescents in his youth for many years, using a dozen operatives, two of whom, Grimsby and Crew, were his ruthless lieutenants. The former is the man he has blackmailed you into placing in Her Majesty’s Treasury, and also the one who killed your daughter Angela. I was not lying when I said I was there last night.”
“But who, sir, are you? And what do you want?”
“I am a half-Jew.” The Governor
stiffens. “I was treated as a leper by my peers from birth, despite my mother’s high breeding and my father’s genius. It was unfair, unjust. My mother was killed by a scoundrel, after I discovered that he had murdered a woman in Whitechapel. He killed my mother to stop me from revealing his identity. But I brought him to justice! Ever since that day I have vowed to bring villains like him to heel. Moriarty and his Grimsby and Crew are the worst of that sort. He is a genius, an angry and evil one with an ax to grind with life that he will work at forever if he is allowed. He intends to have his day in London, as the power behind the criminal menace.”
“Where does he live? I shall have Scotland Yard collar him! There are people there who will keep quiet anything he has to say about me and put him away for good so that no one else will listen. Out with it, boy! Where can we find him?”
“I don’t know. He is elusive in many ways.”
“You don’t know!”
“But I have some information and will do what I can to find out, and failing that I, uh, I shall move heaven and earth to stop him from maintaining Grimsby in a position of power. If I don’t, both he and others will continue to infiltrate our government for many decades to come.”
The Governor drops with a thump into his chair. “I must leave this Grimsby in his position. It does not matter that Angela is dead now. The shadowy Moriarty still knows our secret. His notes to me were very polite, very well written, ingenious really, but with dark and thorough intent. I am sure he secured proof of our predicament. Were I to dismiss Grimsby, he would reveal my secret to the world. I cannot do that to my wife.” He seems about to weep.
“Tell me everything, sir, and I will do what I can.”
Stonefield sighs. “There is not much else I can tell you. My wife gave birth to Gabriella first. The baby was horribly deformed. We were not sure what to do. We could not show our child to others in our society. As you know, such children are always given away. But we loved our poor creature. She was the result of our love. So, we pretended our child had died at birth, swore our doctor to silence, and kept her, attended to by the lady you met in Hounslow, and only her. Then we had our second child, Angela, and you cannot imagine my wife’s distress when God or the Devil gave her to us even more deformed than her sister. We had considered operations for Gabriella and were hoping we might finally bring her out into the light of day for all to see, and be damned with them! But then, the second came. A second monster child! My wife could not be known as the mother of such a cursed breed.”
“But, sir, they are your children.”
“You are not in my position, young man, nor are you subject to the world my wife must inhabit.”
Sherlock nods.
“There is one thing I cannot understand, sir. Why did the Hounslow woman say that this death would break only your heart, not your wife’s, and why did you send Lady Stonefield away just now, and lie to her?”
“She does not know.”
“That Angela is dead?”
“That they both are dead.” He wipes a tear from his eye. “We had to do something with the children after Angela was born. We decided to give them away. I told my wife that I had sent them to a good family in Scotland who would care for them. Though it broke our hearts, we agreed to make it part of our past, never refer to it again, and be comforted by the fact that they were cared for and loved. But I could not completely send them away. I made up a reason to dismiss the woman you met in Hounslow and then paid her to tend to our children in her home. She and her husband are the kindest, most decent people on earth. I visit as often as I can. But Gabriella died of consumption a few years ago. You know the rest.”
“Yes.”
“You must go. I told my wife I was sending you on your way. I shall call Brett and he will discreetly escort you out. I will let him know to always take messages from you in the future. Thank you, young man. And I am sorry for the loss of your mother.”
The Governor rings a bell and Brett appears. As the boy is about to leave, Stonefield stops him.
“One more thing. What is your name?”
“I am someone who is at your service, sir, and at the service of anyone who is wronged, whether they be rich or poor, Jew or Gentile, Englishman or otherwise.” The boy straightens his second-hand frock coat. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”
13
INTO THE WEB
A plan is growing in Sherlock’s mind, a secret plan. As he lies in his bed in the wardrobe that night, the horse-and-carriage sounds of London muffled outside the apothecary shop door, he thinks it through. His plan is a big one. It involves the complete destruction of Malefactor, his lieutenants, and all his future schemes, his entire career. The time has finally come for their confrontation.
The plan has already been set in motion. In order to accomplish the rest of it, the bulk of it, the most dangerous and difficult parts, he must play his role well. No one can know exactly what he is up to, not even Sigerson Bell. There is too much at stake. He shall tell him only what he needs to know.
But the next morning, a Monday, the old apothecary continues to sense that his charge is hiding something from him. They sit in the lab feasting on pigeon pie, goat cheese, and tea. Sherlock seems, to Bell, to be a little too forthcoming while explaining his next move. The boy is usually more cagey about his maneuvers, and the old man often has to draw them out of him. But today Holmes tells him everything, loudly and clearly.
“I shall drop by Her Majesty’s Treasury this morning and confront Grimsby. I will have time to do that before I go to Snowfields. I have a class today.”
“Do you think confronting him is wise? A public display?”
“I will loudly accuse him of the murder of Angela Stonefield.”
The old man is mystified. It is unlike his brilliant boy to make such an error.
“But you must not. The Governor cannot have his secret revealed. Your enemy, this Malefactor chap, still has a hold on him, despite the girl’s death.”
“I shall not use her last name.”
“I would not use any name, if I were you.”
“Perhaps you are correct. And yet, I must go there. I must publicly remind him that I know something about him that has the potential to destroy him and his position, and that I intend to find a way to use it to do that very thing.”
“Be careful what you say.”
“Thank you, sir. I shall. I just wanted you to know that I was going there today to see him.”
Bell lifts his red fez and scratches his balding pate after the boy goes out the door. Sherlock seems anxious and jumpy, also unlike him. But before the old man can give this much more thought, he begins to cough. This wretched spell lasts for ten minutes, the worst he has ever experienced. Afterward, he lies on the floor, barely able to move, and his handkerchief, gripped in his weak left hand, is full of blood.
Sherlock gets to Her Majesty’s Treasury just as Mycroft arrives. The older brother looks at him with that same expression of concern that he’s worn each time they’ve met here.
“Sherlock. Another pleasure. I have nothing to report about your old friend Mr. Grimsby. Surely you did not expect me to just swing into action concerning this. I must be very discreet, you know. And, as you also know, the last two days were not even working days. And yet, here you are. Have you made progress?”
“Oh, yes.”
Mycroft notices a strange gleam in his younger brother’s eyes.
“You say that with great confidence. Anything you might share?”
“No.”
“How kind of you.” He pauses. “Well, I must be on my way.” He turns to go, but Sherlock takes him by the arm.
“I shall wait here to speak to Mr. Grimsby.”
Mycroft wonders why his brother is telling him something that is painfully obvious.
“Yes, well, that is not a great shock, you know. But might I ask you to be gentle with him? Do not make a scene, I beg you.”
“As you wish. I just wanted you to know that I intend to
speak with him today.”
“So you said.”
Mycroft goes up the stairs into Her Majesty’s Treasury, wondering about his brother’s strange conduct.
Sherlock waits until almost every last employee of the Chancellor’s office has arrived that morning. There is no sign of Grimsby. Reminding himself to return at closing time, he hurries off to Snowfields School, a long trip east all the way to the Old City and over London Bridge to Southwark.
When he returns, he again waits for the appearance of almost every Treasury employee and does not see the little henchman. Mycroft, one of the last to leave, spots him standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning on a lamppost. The older brother reluctantly approaches, looking around.
“Your friend was not at his desk today.”
“Really?”
“Curious, that. He has not missed a day yet.”
“Curious, indeed. His superior was there, though, wasn’t he? In good health?”
“Yes, he was,” says Mycroft, giving his brother a quizzical look. “Shall you return tomorrow?”
“First thing.”
“There is really no need, Sherlock. I can send a note around to you. Denmark Street, is it not? The old apothecary shop?”
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