William Angel eyed him sorrowfully.
“Mr. Holmes, I pray it has not yet come to that. But if it has, those two bodyguards would not be able to assist him. I beg you again to do what you can to save him.”
With that, he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him, as Huan pulled up with the carriage.
46
WITH ANGEL’S REQUEST STILL RINGING IN HIS EARS, another piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. Mycroft had to shut out all extraneous sounds and concentrate on what he knew and what he had seen, for the yellow landaulet was sure to appear at any moment, and he hadn’t much time. Unfortunately, his heart was beating erratically.
Douglas stepped off the carriage. “We saw de Matalin’s butler at the door,” he said. “Anxious and in quite the rush.”
Mycroft drew a breath to steady himself and turned to Sherlock, for it was time his brother proved his mettle. “Deshi Hai Lin,” he said. “What did you notice?”
“Flowers and herbs,” Sherlock replied.
“Sherlock, we are past all that—” Mycroft began.
“Flowers and herbs,” he insisted.
Mycroft sighed deeply and rattled off: “Rose, dahlia, lily, myrtle, anise, amaryllis, aster, holly, violet, tulip, poppy, sage, tansy, rue, and daffodil.”
“Ah! So, the names of females! No, not females. I would say dolls—that appalling ‘Jacinthe’ for example—”
“Sherlock!” Mycroft scolded. “Now, please!”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine. A spot of mud on the heel of his right shoe, wrong consistency for the docks, or for Pimlico on a night like this. Two marks on his left shirt cuff, barely discernible, the size of a man’s rather oily thumb, with another point of contact, forefinger and middle, on the inside. A row of fingernail marks in the palm of his right hand.”
“Thoughts?”
“He was in a lower caste neighborhood. He turned to leave when some person with oily fingers on his right made a move to detain him. Lin ripped his hand away and started once more to go, only to be grabbed again, this time by another person on his left as he swung back his hand, though he was almost instantly released.”
“He did not pull away?” Mycroft asked, eyeing the street and listening for the sounds of carriage wheels.
“Stains were intact, not feathered. And light. Which means the minion to his left had barely touched him when he was ordered to unhand him. Lin has a skin infection above the nape of his neck, slightly visible underneath his hair, one small vertical crimson line, freshly disturbed, its detritus under the nails of his right hand: he had been scratching at it earlier, which means these were people he was familiar with, for one does not scratch at one’s head while speaking to strangers, or in a formal setting. His mouth was dry even after a few sips of dessert wine. He had chewed at his bottom lip, and had no appetite—so nerves, nerves, and more nerves. And when he spoke of the coolie trade, his primary emotion was not the frosty anger one displays over a battle fought for years, but fresh rage, barely suppressed.
“Whoever molested his peace is someone he knows well, who wields power over him and who frightens him,” Sherlock went on. “‘A devil’ might not be overstating it from his point of view, as his pupils were dilated in fear. I am assuming Lin is second in command, but something happened this night to disturb that balance of power. ‘A dozen devils’ no doubt refers to those who have now turned their backs on him. He is just coming to terms with it, thus the loss of equilibrium as the magnitude of the betrayal settles in. His daughter was clearly worried for him because ‘coolies’ is not a subject one brings up in polite dinner conversation, but she was desperate to discern how her father was faring, which she felt she could gauge solely via his immediate and unfiltered response. Had he had a chance to consider, he would have lied to protect her.”
“Yes,” Mycroft said, exhaling—for he realized he had been holding his breath, hoping Sherlock would get it right. “One revision however. Lin is not the second in command, but the first, with the second now trying to wrest power.”
With that, he turned to Douglas. “I see you have brought your pistol, for you are protective of your left breast pocket—”
“Not as impressive as what Sherlock just pulled off,” Douglas chided.
“Then let me raise the stakes,” Mycroft said. “The patriarch of this family may be in jeopardy. His daughter may have been called away legitimately, but the timing is odd. There is but one entry into the house, and it is through that door. Might you and Huan continue your watch? For there is no one else who has a chance against what is coming.”
“What is coming?” Huan asked, climbing out of the driver’s seat, his tone more curious than fearful.
“You had a few hours to assess the two bodyguards,” Mycroft said. “How many men could they take on?”
“If their opponents are not professional combatants? I would say five altogether, as they are more brawn than brain,” Douglas replied, and Huan nodded in agreement.
“Then you might expect more than five,” Mycroft said. “And if they carry weapons, they’ll be of a sort that is quickly hidden or disposed of.”
“Ah, so foreigners! Asian, perhaps!” Huan exclaimed. Then he glanced at Douglas and shrugged. “Better. We know how they fight.”
Huan looked pensive. Then he patted the horse on his muzzle affectionately and raked his fingers several times through the beast’s luxurious mane.
“We have located the yellow landaulet’s mysterious driver,” Mycroft added. “I am to follow him, and Sherlock will accompany me.”
“Not unless you fill me in thoroughly,” Sherlock complained.
“‘Eis qui sine peccato est vestrum primus in illam lapidem mittat!’” Mycroft shot back, his eyes narrowed.
It took Sherlock less than five seconds to scramble up next to Mycroft in the driver’s seat.
A moment after that, the canary-yellow landaulet came careening around the corner and took off in all haste down the street.
* * *
The landaulet sped down Wilton Road to Vauxhall Bridge Road, past the Royal Standard and Buckingham Palace. St. James’s Palace seemed to float in the background, its lanterns creating an eerie glow as the mild night gave way to long, gossamer strands of fog that began to settle across the city streets and then join into a mantle that grew thicker and thicker and dropped lower and lower as they went.
In the near half hour it took to travel between Pimlico and their destination, Mycroft did his best to elucidate Sherlock as to the mysterious appearances of the vehicle they were following, the calling cards bearing Angel’s name, the finger ridges made of soot, Charles’s matching prints, and the sovereigns.
He held back Cainborn’s assignation with Deshi Hai Lin, for after a week’s investigating, he had no more than one seemingly heated tête-à-tête outside the National Standard Theatre to report. There was nothing that tied Sherlock’s professor to contraband, whether drugs or gold, much less to murder.
But it left Mycroft in the unenviable position of having to manufacture for Sherlock a connection that led from de Matalin to Deshi Hai Lin. And frankly, he was not up to it.
“Once we realized that Angel was Lin’s butler, we knew we would have to investigate both,” Mycroft declared.
“And how did you come to realize that, when ‘William Angel’ is not his real name?” Sherlock inquired.
“Parfitt,” Mycroft lied quickly. “He is a miracle worker.”
“To find a nonexistent name in public records?” Sherlock said, his doubting eyebrow at full mast. “He must be a bloody Merlin.”
“Language, Sherlock—”
“Why you must keep secrets…” Sherlock began, but the quotation in Latin that “let him who is without sin cast the first stone” must have still been fresh in his mind, for he did not pursue it further.
Unfortunately, it confirmed to Mycroft that his brother was continuing to keep secrets as well. He could only hope none was dangerous.
The
landaulet turned onto Piccadilly, and after a moment they’d reached the noble residences overlooking the park.
It slowed in front of Madame de Matalin’s grand old building. It was still early enough that traffic, even in this residential portion of the street, was brisk. No one would notice the comings and goings of servants or visitors to the house.
As Mycroft halted the carriage, he watched Ai Lin emerge from her own vehicle, her bodyguards in tow and a key in her hand. Concentrated fully on the task before her, she crossed to the pavement as William Angel disembarked and hurried over to Mycroft.
“I will see to your carriage,” Angel announced, holding out his hand for the reins.
Mycroft leaned in, whispering through his teeth: “I don’t give two figs for my carriage, only for my brother’s life. If this is a trap, I will find ways to hound you to the ends of the earth, do I make myself clear?”
Without awaiting reply, Mycroft gave him the reins and jumped down, with Sherlock behind him. The two caught up with Ai Lin as she reached the front door.
“How do you know Madame de Matalin?” Mycroft demanded.
Ai Lin glanced up, surprised but unruffled. “I would ask the same of you, Mr. Holmes. Though now is not really the time…”
Mycroft paused then said, “Send your bodyguards back to your father’s house.” When she hesitated, he added, “Your father was badly shaken. I believe he could be in danger—they might save his life. My friend is there, Cyrus Douglas, a tall black man. Have them do whatever he says.”
Ai Lin looked back at her bodyguards. “Mr. Angel will wait with Mr. Holmes’s carriage,” she said. “You will do as Mr. Holmes has said.”
She turned the key, and pushed open the door.
47
WITH AI LIN IN THE LEAD, THE THREE HURRIED DOWN THE hall. Thick Persian carpets still covered the floor and African silver and ivory sculptures still stood mute and regal. But the house was empty.
“Where are the servants?” Sherlock whispered as Ai Lin paused to listen.
“Gone,” she declared.
She seemed suddenly shaky on her feet. Mycroft reached out a hand to steady her, but she steeled herself and approached the library door. Mycroft pushed it open and the three entered.
A welcoming fire burned in the enormous hearth. Every chandelier and lamp had been lit. At the far end of the gilt-framed divan sat the child-sized bisque doll, Marguerite, her glassy eyes staring straight ahead.
On the nearer end of the divan, closer to the door, sat the Madame.
She was still dressed in the garish attire that gave the birds of the air and lilies of the field a run for their money. Her knees were splayed open and her right sleeve had been unceremoniously rolled up to the biceps, exposing skin as lined and thin as used wax paper. She had a fresh puncture wound at the crook of her left elbow, a loosened foulard draped just above it, a syringe dangling between the fingers of her right hand. Her eyes were open, as was her crimson-tinted mouth, set in a grimace that seemed to Mycroft a cross between a laugh and a scream, every trace of life extinct.
“Quite dead,” Sherlock proclaimed, his voice reverberating through the enormous room.
Mycroft stole a glance at the empty Louis XIV ormolu chair, where the Madame had sat at their previous meeting.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” Ai Lin said, following his gaze, her voice breaking. “That is her favorite chair. That is where we would have found her, had this been a simple overdose…”
Mycroft nodded. “It has been staged, and not well,” he replied, eyeing the syringe in de Matalin’s hand, with a little half-filled vial of brownish liquid on the table, should anyone miss the implication. Neither syringe nor vial matched the ones he had found in her Limoges box upstairs.
He tasted the liquid. “Morphine,” he announced to no one’s surprise.
Ai Lin removed her cloak, set it upon the ormolu chair and approached de Matalin’s body. She eyed the syringe, then placed it upon the table. She took the old woman’s hand in hers, palpated her neck, jaw and shoulders, and inspected her fingernails and eyes.
“This was done with a practiced hand,” Sherlock volunteered, eyeing the syringe.
“Too much so,” Ai Lin responded. “The Madame was a bit of a novice with the needle; others always did it for her. I doubt she would have found a vein so accurately, or inserted so cleanly.”
“How did you come to know her?” Mycroft asked.
“Through William Angel,” Ai Lin said. “She and he were both addicts. William prided himself on his taste in opium: I am told he purchased only the best. When the Madame’s butler was scouting around for sources, he found William. Then, when William lost his taste for it, he introduced me to the Madame, hoping I could help her as well. I managed to save one, but apparently not the other.”
From an emerald reticule at her hip she extracted a thermometer, two small, sheathed knives, and a handkerchief. Laying the thermometer and the knives upon the table, she palpated de Matalin’s abdomen with her fingers before settling at her upper stomach.
“I have read accounts of postmortems, of course,” Sherlock said, drawing closer and with entirely too much enthusiasm, “but this is the first one I have witnessed—”
“Sherlock…” Mycroft warned.
“No, it is quite all right, Mr. Holmes. Madame de Matalin was not much use in life. Perhaps in death, she can be more helpful. I have faith that Master Sherlock will put whatever knowledge he has to good use. You must have learned,” she said to Sherlock, “that there are three preliminary indications of death: algor mortis, rigor mortis and livor mortis. Algor refers to the temperature of the body.”
“I read that the body loses, on average, one-point-five degrees per hour,” he replied.
“Simplistic and deceptive,” she countered, “for the weight of the body matters, as does the thickness of clothing, the ambient temperature, the age of the deceased—and those are just a handful of factors. There are others.”
Unsheathing the larger knife, which looked the sort that could cut a pig’s throat clean through, Ai Lin followed the lining of de Matalin’s dress at the ribs, ripping through the costly material.
“Children and the elderly,” she continued, “tend to lose heat more quickly. There is a diurnal difference, and of course a baseline difference, which varies from person to person. But, because I had been working with Madame, I know her baseline temperature, which ran cooler than most, ninety-eight on the nose.”
“How long since you last treated her?” Mycroft asked.
“Six months or more,” Ai Lin declared sadly. Using the extremely sharp tip of the knife and some pressure, she made a gash in de Matalin’s corset over her upper stomach. “The fire, for example, would keep her warm longer,” she said as she laid the first deadly implement aside and unsheathed the smaller knife, which looked to Mycroft like a surgeon’s scalpel. She inspected it as if meditating upon it, then deftly jabbed it through the gash in the corset into de Matalin’s abdomen just beneath the diaphragm.
So efficient was its violence that Mycroft and Sherlock drew a collective breath.
As Sherlock leaned in, fascinated, Ai Lin extracted the bloody knife, placed it on the handkerchief, and quickly inserted the thermometer into the wound she had just created.
“There are two locations where the temperature of a corpse is to be taken, for in death the mouth is no longer a reliable indicator,” Ai Lin explained. “The first is… rather intimate. The second is in the tissue of the liver. So we have her baseline temperature of ninety-eight. Let us return to her one point for diurnal and ambient, minus one point five per hour…”
She pulled out the thermometer, wiped the blood on the handkerchief, then squinted at the mercury. Sherlock’s head was now very near her own.
“Ninety-six point seven!” he announced. “She has been dead an hour and a half!”
Ai Lin nodded. “Approximately, and confirmed by the beginnings of rigor mortis.”
“The small muscles
in her face and neck would already be rather rigid to the touch, though not fully so,” Sherlock said. “Is that correct?”
“Touch her and see,” Ai Lin said.
Sherlock placed his fingers upon de Matalin’s cheekbones.
“Her arms and shoulders have not yet begun to harden, for rigor moves from small muscles to greater,” Ai Lin went on. “Some forty-eight hours later, the process is reversed: great to small, until the corpse slackens completely. And livor mortis—the pooling of the blood within thirty minutes of the last heartbeat—further testifies to us its own truth,” she declared. “Here is the pooling of blood in her hands, which were laid upon the divan. But oh!” she exclaimed, as if hearing her own voice for the first time. “Perhaps I should not be speaking thus! Whatever must you think of me?” she added, looking at Mycroft.
That you are the most stunning creature I have ever laid eyes upon, Mycroft thought but thankfully did not say.
What he did say was: “Sherlock, upstairs in her bedroom was once a bejeweled Limoges box. I doubt it is there still, but do check.”
“I might also see if there is anything unusual or out of place,” Sherlock offered excitedly.
“Yes, but do not be lax about it,” Mycroft responded. “Hurry.”
As Sherlock bolted out of the room, Mycroft indicated their surroundings. “The lights are for show,” he said to Ai Lin, “for they were not nearly so bright when I was last here. The fire’s detritus, given the flames’ height, plus the flickering of the gas lamps, based on their activity since we first walked in, disclose the time the last living being fled this house—I would say some forty-five minutes ago. By now they will have contacted the local coroner, for whom they staged this macabre little scene. Is there anything here, anything at all, that can be tied to you?” he asked her.
“The tin on her end table, the one with the kratom—but that can be had at any chemist.”
“Her man came to your house, distraught, to tell you she had died. Her other servants are mercenary types, are they not? Faithful enough to de Matalin, but not so keen on trouble?”
Mycroft and Sherlock Page 25
