by Ted Riccardi
“Quite possibly that is the case,” said Holmes. “But tell me, Mr. McHugh, you are a singer, a tenor if I am not mistaken, and have performed at Sadler’s Wells on occasion.”
“Now ’ow did ya come ta thet conclusion? Mrs. Davies told ya all about me, eh?”
“Quite the contrary; I deduced it. I observed also that Rose owed you a large sum of money for losses at the gambling table, one hundred pounds I would say.”
“’ow did you know thet? Even my Mary ’ere don’t know thet.”
“I am a student of opera, Mr. McHugh, and I heard you on occasion years ago before you ruined your throat with the overindulgence in substances antithetical to the musical stage. Your gambling debts did not help your voice, either. I remember vividly your remarkable rendition of ‘Nessun dorma.’ As to the gambling, here: this paper, which preceded me in this chair, and which I removed as we sat down, registers the debt. I assume its veracity.”
“The money’s gone wit ’im, Mr. ’olmes. I ’ope you find ’im, the bloody thief.”
“Please tell to me again exactly what you saw, where, and when.”
“It was three days ago, Mr. ’olmes, I was goin’ to me new job at Simpson’s food market. I was mindin’ me own business when I saw ’im. It musta bin aroun’ six thirty in the mornin’.”
McHugh stopped long enough to finish his ale. He wiped his lips on his sleeve.
“It was at Russell Square. It was still dark, I remember. ’e came boundin’ off the lift when ’e almost run me down. Then I saw who ’e was and tried to grab ’im but ’e pulled ’imself free and ran off. ’e looked if anythin’ very bad, wot wid ’is ’air all shootin’ in every direction, and ’is face almos’ black wi’ dirt. But I recognized ’im I did. No doubt about it. “’Course I dint get me money, the bloody crook . . .”
“Do you remember anything else, anything at all?” asked Holmes finally.
“I do, as a matter of fact. ’e was carryin’ a shovel.”
“Thank you, Mr. McHugh. Should you remember anything else, please let me know.”
Holmes stood up and we left. We returned to Barbara’s house. As we entered her sitting room, Holmes said, “Barbara, let us open the valises that Mr. Rose chose not to retrieve.”
Holmes brought them into the light. They were locked. Holmes took a pick from his overcoat and opened them.
“How curious, Holmes, why there’s nothing here—mirabile dictu—except two pieces of an old shovel, one in each of the valises,” said I.
“Interesting. A shovel, the column of which is broken in two so that it is now useless. But it may be no ordinary shovel, Watson. Note the letters stamped on it: C and L. It has been thoroughly cleaned, indeed scrubbed, before it was placed in the valise. I suspect that it broke just before Rose was set to leave and caused him some inconvenience. Most probably it is one like the shovel that McHugh saw.”
“But why did he not just throw the shovel into the trash?” I asked.
“I suspect, dear Watson, that when we learn that we shall have found Mr. Rose.”
We accompanied Barbara to her door, and then walked south and west to the edge of the square. Holmes stopped for a moment and glanced towards the Davies residence, then turned and looked upwards at the house in front of which we were standing.
“This one is empty, Holmes,” said I.
“Yes, indeed. I thought as much. And vacant for a long time. Now, Watson, let us walk down the hill to Kingsway.”
We had not gone far down the hill on Wharton Street when Holmes stopped again, this time in front of a small iron gate. It appeared to mark the entrance to no house or yard in particular, but opened upon an unkempt dirt path that went between two houses.
“Come, let us enter,” said Holmes.
We found the gate to be unlocked. Holmes closed it after us.
The path turned north and we walked now between two windowless walls that belonged to adjacent houses, one of which I realized was the vacant house we had just seen from the square. We walked to the end of the path, where it opened up into a grassy plot of weeds and trash, mainly pieces of rotted wood interspersed with which there were piles of filthy rags and what looked like the remains of an upholsterer’s shop. It was a silent piece of isolation in the very heart of the city, invisible from the street.
“Nothing of interest here,” I said.
“Quite the contrary, Watson. This pile of wood and other castoffs may have some connection with the circular marks on the window and the putty-filled holes in Barbara’s establishment. But let us continue.”
What struck me as an outlandish conjecture on Holmes’s part produced a wide smile on my face.
“Holmes, you’re going daft, old boy.”
As I spoke, Holmes climbed the stairs to the back of the nearest house and turned the knob. The door was unlocked.
“You may be right, but let us see. Remain here while I take a look.”
I stood firmly on guard of this unexpected melancholy spot between two houses. Holmes returned very quickly.
“It is all beginning to fit together quite nicely. Come, Watson, we haven’t a moment to lose. My only fear is that we will be too late. It is the new moon tonight, and our quarry will want to act in complete darkness.”
He pulled at me so strongly that I dared not ask him what he had found. He closed the gate and we continued our walk to the bottom of the hill, where he hailed a cab. When we reached Museum Street, he told the driver to halt and jumped out.
“Watson,” he said in almost a whisper, “I must spend a few hours on some questions related to this case. Meet me at home at six this evening. Call Lestrade and have him come. Tell him it is urgent, and both of you bring your revolvers.”
I watched as Holmes walked into the museum, and then directed the cabby to Baker Street. I called Lestrade and he arrived immediately.
“What’s he up to this time?” he asked as we sat and waited.
“I don’t really know,” said I, “except that Holmes left me at the museum and seemed somewhat excited, shall we say?”
We were both silent for several minutes as we pondered Holmes’s intentions.
“Then he’s onto something rather big, I should think.”
“Rather big indeed,” said Holmes as he came through the front door at that very moment.
“Here, gentlemen, put these rags on and we shall be off.”
The rags were an old shirt, torn trousers, and black handkerchiefs to hide our faces. Holmes was wearing the same.
“Gentlemen, let me explain part, at least, of what we are doing dressed this way. A few moments in the museum examining the architectural plans of this square when it was first built in 1820 gave me the clue that I needed. You may recall, Watson, that in the suitcases left behind by Ian Rose there were two parts of a shovel with the letters C and L?”
“I know that one, Mr. Holmes. Any bobby can tell you what that stands for: City of London. Those shovels belong to the city.”
“Indeed, Lestrade. And the old plans and maps I found in the museum pull all the clues together.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“I’m afraid that we haven’t time for me to explain it all. Let us say only that a number of thieves, gravediggers to be exact, may be on their way to Lloyd Square, as I speak. We must get there before they do. As soon as we arrive, Watson, the two of you go to the cellar of the house we visited and hide in the dark corners far from the door. If I am correct, a group of men will begin to gather. By all means stay out of any light. One of the thieves, their leader, may address the men. As he leaves I shall arrest him. I shall be carrying a large kerosene lamp. When I light it, pull out your revolvers. I shall do the same. At that moment, Lestrade, identify yourself and put the whole group under arrest. If all goes well the men will be caught by surprise and will offer no resistance. If you have to fire, fire into the air. I shall see you in a little while, and I shall share my deductions with you.”
We hailed a cab for the
square. Lestrade followed me into the house and then into the cellar. We each chose a corner and put the black bandannas over our faces. It was pitch-dark.
In a few minutes we were no longer alone. Several men entered one by one. None noticed us. One stood up and addressed them in a soft but earnest voice.
“Men, I won’t waste time on words. We have received the signal. We have to move quickly. You know what we are looking for. There will be a lot of it. When you find it put it in one of these barrels. Remember: we have three hours, no more.
“We have to accomplish our work in that short time. You all know and trust each other. I shall be on guard outside. When I return, we leave. Have to it, lads.”
There was a change in the grammar and enunciation, but there was no question that the voice was that of John McHugh, his pot belly almost visible in the shadows.
There was a general commotion, quiet but steady, and then the sound of shovels digging into the earth, followed occasionally by the sound of someone emptying a shovel into one of the containers.
The digging continued steadily into the deep night. Despite the cold outside, the cellar was warm. Sweat poured from us, and we commiserated with some of the other men with grunts and groans.
Then, as he had said he would, Holmes entered the room and lit a large lamp. The men were momentarily blinded by it. Holmes addressed them in a loud firm voice.
“I am sorry to interrupt your excavation, dear gentlemen, but, unfortunately, you have been found engaged in looting an old graveyard, a serious offense under British law. Your leaders have been captured. Men from Scotland Yard are guarding the exit. Please turn and face the wall. Follow the shadow of the man to your right. You will exit now one by one and will be put in temporary custody.”
The men obeyed and went out calmly, though I heard some grumblings about the stupidity of the leaders. Lestrade went before me, and I was the last to leave that awful place with its odor of living human sweat mixed with the rot of mildewed bones. As my eyes grew accustomed to the street lights, I saw Ian Rose, the ringleader whose nocturnal scheme it was. He suddenly turned, however, and, pushing the men to the ground, freed himself and ran into the dark cellar. In a flash, Holmes was after him.
“Follow me, my boys, we’ll get him,” said Lestrade.
From outside I heard the scramble up the stairs.
“Hold your fire, Lestrade, I have him cornered. He can’t move unless—”
I heard the noise of window glass shattering. Suddenly, Rose was beside me, on the ground, stunned by his leap through the window. He tried to grab my gun, but I gave him a blow to the head with it, and he fell to the ground. Cuffed now by Lestrade, there was no possibility of escape. We watched as the culprits were led away and then took a cab to Baker Street. Lestrade joined us.
“Well, Holmes, perhaps you should explain. I am completely in the dark . . .” said I as we entered our cab.
“I could use a few details,” chimed in Lestrade. “The fact is, Holmes, I don’t have any idea of what this is all about.”
“It is simplicity itself, but, unfairly, I think I have all the cards, you two no more than two or three. Shall I begin at the beginning?”
“By all means,” said I.
“As you will remember, Watson, from our conversations with Barbara Davies, we learned that our suspect Ian Rose was a medical student, but was fairly well heeled since he paid six months in advance. The rent was rather high for such a small place, so we must believe that he wanted that flat for other reasons only known to him. We learned too that he kept irregular hours and sometimes did not return until the early morning. He also was a gambler and had enough money to owe John McHugh about a hundred pounds, a good deal for a student. Already you see and feel, gentlemen, the contradictions in this man Rose. From where does he get his money? He must be more than just a medical student. He may be doing something rather unusual for his earnings.”
“And what is that, Holmes?” I asked.
“Something especially out of the ordinary, Watson: grave digging, at first for respectable people bereaved by the loss of a loved one and needing a grave in a cemetery of their choice. Our culprit is greedy, however, and moves up in the chain of chores and their concomitant rewards. He moves from grave digging to grave robbing. Literally by the worst kind of skullduggery, he begins providing cadavers for the university medical students. The university is quite pleased with his supply at first because he makes it a point to remove the freshest examples from what is supposed to be their eternal rest.”
“The man is a fiend, Holmes,” shouted Lestrade with great disgust.
“But we are only at the beginning. Rose has a problem.”
“Not enough cadavers . . .”
“Quite right, Lestrade. He needs a steadier and larger supply of corpses. He hires agents who comb the streets for derelicts and do them in. The number of missing persons in London suddenly increases as the number of agents willing to do this horrible kind of work grows. He has learned through Davies that Lloyd Square was originally owned by a rich merchant, Josiah Lloyd Pepys, who had built in the back of his house a hidden cemetery for rich members of a small sect of religious fanatics known as “The True Brethren of Ekkebu.” The sect was founded in America some seventy-five years ago by one Lawrence Oliphant and his chief successor, a Thomas Harris of London, with whom coincidentally I have already come in deadly contact, but that is another story. Pepys convinced the congregation of Ekkebuites to change its wealth into gold bullion and allow the use of his own embalming methods to preserve their bodies for their future life in the heaven of their world spirit, the god Zandonai.
“Rose now has more than he can handle. The doctors have grown suspicious of these strangely embalmed cadavers. Rose needs a confederate, and he enlists our friend McHugh as his colleague in the gruesome work. McHugh, desperate for money, agrees to do the digging and hire help; but they are an unnatural pair. Rose is meticulous and McHugh is not. Rose’s use of two small telescopes, for instance, and two candles in windows on the square was timed so that the bobby on duty would be at the far end of the square when Rose entered and exited. McHugh several times failed to put out his candle, causing the bobby to try to open the door. Luckily for them, the bobby does not pursue the matter. The bodies continue to arrive at the medical schools in a steady flow. There is no gold found, however, and despite his investigations that support a contrary conclusion, Rose is convinced that gold is still interred with the bones of the members of the Brotherhood. He cannot relinquish the idea, so attractive to a greedy individual is it. Think of it, gentlemen, the individual fortunes of several hundred dead, conveniently changed into gold bullion, lying there in wait for those willing to take the trouble to dig it up.”
‘Never heard the likes of it before,” said Lestrade. “How did you figure all of this, Holmes? It is still beyond anything of its kind that I have heard of before.”
“Rose realizes that he must act immediately. For him, it is all a matter of time. He recruits a few of his cronies to join McHugh and his group. And he chooses this very night to dig out the cemetery because there is no moon. It is the perfect night. He cannot wait another month. At a meeting behind the Pepys house he explains to the men what is at stake. Most naturally, they are ready and able.”
“Let us go back to the suitcases left and not picked up,” said I.
“Indeed, Watson. And here the crime committed is far greater than housebreaking. You must change the charge, Lestrade, to include murder in the first degree.”
I must say that I was stunned when I heard Holmes’s words. And then I realized what he meant.
“Rose, if I am not mistaken, killed Dumond Davies in cold blood. He did this in order to silence him before he brought the cemetery and its contents to public attention. It was indeed Davies who first learned of the strange cemetery and shared what he knew with Rose early in their friendship. Rose became a model of stealth and deceit with Davies, and concluded that he must move quickly. The h
ouses built over the cemetery had been vacant for decades, forgotten by the family, priest, and sect, everyone unaware now of the treasure that lay in that dark chamber, a few feet below the street. Rose had to have it.
“On the day fateful to him, Davies had invited the younger man home to meet his wife. Completely alone with his host, Rose dared not forgo the opportunity. He watched carefully as Davies began to repair an old lamp. Rose looked for a weapon. He saw the shovel in the Davies garden. Dumond was now kneeling on the floor concentrating on putting some wires together. A heavy blow to the back of the head caused Davies to fall forward. A few sparks and it was all over. Rose left unseen with his weapon, fearful that somehow it would be found and traced to him. When he decided to move he cleaned it thoroughly and broke it in two pieces to fit in his valises.”
“But why did he not return and take the valises with him?” I asked.
“Here,” said Holmes, “I can only conjecture. Perhaps he asked McHugh to retrieve them. Barbara surely would have let him have them.”
I looked up as the first silver signs of morning appeared in the sky. I heard someone singing.
“And why did we and Tanner not see the blow to Davies’s head?” I asked.
“Nessun dorma,” said Holmes. “Let no one sleep. Listen.”
THE MOUNTAIN OF FEAR
N.B. The reader of the following story will note, as he progresses into the text, a certain inconsistency in style, particularly at the beginning of the second section. Holmes himself pointed it out to me, and I enter a note of explanation here. Although I have used the same technique in other chronicles, particularly in “The Valley of Fear,” Holmes has convinced me that a word of comment would not be amiss.
Some time ago, on one of our long journeys between London and Rome, Holmes settled himself quickly in his seat and barely spoke, having immersed himself in a very long novel from which he refused to be distracted.
“My apologies, Watson, but as soon as I finish with this I shall hand it over to you.”
It was on the following morning, if I recall correctly, that he read through the final pages and with a flourish, handed me the large tome.
