Murder at Sorrow's Crown

by Steven Savile

  He eyed me a moment and then broke into a smile, reminding me of his easy-going cousin. “Of course, as a doctor you would be most curious. I lack the medical training, but yes, those last days seemed to move with terrible swiftness.”

  “While bronchitis is nothing unusual, the delirium and comatose state I read about in the press seemed unusual,” I ventured, choosing my words carefully. “Did his personal doctors have any concerns?”

  His lordship narrowed his eyes in thought, stroking the length of his fine beard, then shook his head. “Nothing I can recall. If they had concerns, it is safe to say they did not share them with me. Of course, as I intimated, I got there with barely hours to spare and was not much interested in his condition prior to my arrival. All that mattered to me was that I was on hand to say a proper farewell.”

  “Understandable, my lord. Your loyalty to him, of course, has been well spoken of. After all, few would take no compensation to remain in his lordship’s employ.” I was referring to the period between the first and second Disraeli administrations. Even now, after his public service was brought to an end with Disraeli’s death, Rowton had continued to serve Her Majesty, and his activities had taken a rather philanthropic turn over the last few months.

  “I don’t mind admitting that I find your questions curious, Doctor,” Lord Rowton said. “Is there something about his passing that you wish to learn?”

  “Very insightful of you, sir,” I said. “Are you familiar with a man named Sherlock Holmes?”

  Another pause as he looked over my shoulder, thinking. There were murmurs in the adjacent room, members of the House arriving. Finally, he returned his gaze to me.

  “He’s some sort of detective, am I right? I believe the phrase my cousin used was ‘consulting detective’. A most curious profession.”

  “Holmes is a most curious man,” I said. “I’ve never known anyone quite like him.”

  “As you might imagine, I made inquiries into him before agreeing to meet and there are more than a few people in Her Majesty’s Government keen on his work.”

  “Indeed, sir. Holmes has proven rather useful to the police of late,” I said with some pride.

  “And in my own circles, I seem to recall he has proven useful in more private matters,” he added. I nodded. “So let us cease with this beating around the bush. How, pray tell, does this inquiry of yours relate to him?”

  I summoned the words to make my request sound as rational as possible. “I have come to assist Mr. Holmes on his investigations and right now we are looking into the disappearance of a sailor who vanished during the Boer conflict.”

  “I see.” He waited patiently for me to explain, his expression placid though perhaps a tad curious.

  “There appears to be some question as to his actual whereabouts,” I continued. “The Royal Navy has him officially listed as Missing in Action, but we can find no documentation to support that or any witness who can confirm when he was last seen. Admiralty staff have intimated that the MIA designation is an honourable cover for desertion. We are investigating on behalf of the sailor’s mother, who is convinced, as mothers are wont, that her boy could not have abandoned his men.”

  “I appreciate your work on behalf of this man’s mother,” his lordship said.

  “Clearly something is afoot because we are being physically harassed to cease the investigation,” I said.

  That caught Lord Rowton’s attention and his eyes widened. “The Admiralty has been interfering?”

  “Not in an overt way, no, sir,” said I. “Out of uniform ruffians attacked Holmes and myself, and their meaning was perfectly clear.”

  “I see. But what on earth could this possibly have to do with Lord Beaconsfield?” asked Rowton.

  “I realise that the link may not be apparent. I myself cannot see it. But Mr. Holmes is a man of singular vision and thought. He sees connections that beggar the imagination of normal men like us, and he has seen a thread that he believes if pulled will lead from this young man’s disappearance in Africa to the death of the late prime minister.”

  “That is a preposterous notion, my good man. Impossible.”

  “A most reasonable sentiment, Lord Rowton,” said I. “Holmes suspects the sailor of having been killed in some sort of action that Her Majesty’s Government does not want the general public to know. Surely you harbour a few such secrets.”

  He did not articulate his reply but the brief nod of his head gave me all the confirmation I needed.

  “Someone is trying to capitalise on Africa’s instability. Holmes believes whoever is behind all this also wanted to blunt Lord Beaconsfield’s voice in the House of Lords during much the same period. Mr. Holmes is attempting to find evidence to connect the two events.”

  “That’s quite the assertion, Doctor Watson,” he said. “Yes, there was a question or two about his deterioration but not a living soul in attendance suspected any form of foul play.”

  “They are not trained as Holmes is,” said I. “He sees what the rest of us overlook.”

  “What is it this Holmes wants to see in relation to this matter?”

  “We are hoping you might grant us access to Lord Beaconsfield’s papers.” I took a deep breath and then added, “And perhaps his lordship’s medical records.”

  Lord Rowton did not mask his astonishment. “You do realise, Doctor, how genuinely absurd this request sounds? Gladstone was prime minister when this sailor went missing and Lord Beaconsfield was merely the leader of the loyal opposition for a brief period and had nothing to do with military matters.”

  His reasoning was perfectly sound and I needed to press my case quickly lest he refuse any assistance. “If you would be so kind, any papers would be useful.”

  “It really is quite a preposterous request,” Rowton said, and then stopped himself and leaned in towards me, fearsome intelligence glittering in his old eyes. There was no hint of world-weariness in them. On the contrary, I saw myself across the table from a daunting foe. Now there were merely inches between our faces. “You have my attention, Doctor.”

  I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, trying to sound as reasonable as possible. The last thing I wanted was for him to think he was in the company of a delusional fool. “As I said, if you know of Holmes’s reputation, sir, then you no doubt know he is quite exceptional in this field, and while he may not confide all in me, I trust him enough to assure you that if he thinks there may be a connection, then there just may be. I will add, quite frankly, sir, that as a physician, I find the manner of Disraeli’s passing curious. Access to those records would put my mind at ease and if it also provides us with a clue then that is all for the good.”

  Lord Rowton sat in contemplative silence and I decided I had made my case, both for Holmes and for myself. I chose to let him consider what had been said and would abide by whatever decision he reached, whether or not Holmes would be satisfied. It was the best that I could do.

  “I will admit now that I have had some time to consider those sad days, it does appear to have happened quickly, but excellent physicians and a renowned coroner were at his side both during and after his passing. I cannot believe they were at fault, or that some shadowy assassin’s hand was at play. It is quite unthinkable.” I braced myself for his refusal. “But he was my friend, and if there is even a shadow of doubt concerning his final days I owe it to him to shine a light upon it. Fresh eyes upon those records could be no bad thing, and one military man to another I appreciate what you are doing for that man’s mother. She certainly deserves the truth, whatever it may be.”

  I sat still, certain if I moved I would break the spell and he would recant everything he seemingly just offered.

  “I do not know if you are aware, Doctor, but his Lordship left me all his papers. They do not include the medical notes of his doctors relating to his last days—for those you must look elsewhere—but you may find something pertinent to your inquiry. They are currently at my home. I will make arrangements to have them brou
ght into the city for your examination should you so wish. Now I think of it, I have a copy of an article by Dr. Kidd that you may find illuminating, which I will include with the papers. But for my own peace of mind, I will keep my man nearby to retrieve them.”

  I nodded. “Of course, sir. That is a wise precaution and I thank you so much for your help.”

  “Our lot is one of service, Doctor, and I am all too happy to help where I can, knowing that in doing so we may be helping my friend and ultimately, the Crown,” Rowton said, rising to his feet, a clear signal our meeting was at an end.

  * * *

  Despite being nearly an hour away on foot I chose to walk back to Baker Street. I immediately regretted it given the heat and humidity. Perspiration ran down my neck, irritating my collar, but something also was pricking at my neck. Slowly, I turned my head and had a sense I was being followed. I could not identify my pursuer but I was certain of it. Holmes would no doubt have determined the man by his footfall and likely what he had for breakfast but I had to accept what my senses were warning me of.

  I returned to Baker Street, quite unmolested having never spotted the tracker, feeling both dizzied and ecstatic at having obtained the support of so prestigious a figure. That we were being granted access to the Prime Minister’s papers was nothing short of miraculous. In truth I had not allowed myself to contemplate success in this particular endeavour, so as better to avoid the crushing disappointment of failure, but Holmes’s growing reputation was paying unexpected dividends.

  Such thoughts were quickly swept from my mind as I entered the building only to be assaulted by the rank odour of charred wood.

  My feet propelled me up the seventeen steps, my heart beginning to pound, my mind racing. As I opened the door to our sitting room, the smell grew in intensity.

  My emotions were in a flux as I saw Holmes carefully sweeping a pile of ash onto a small glass slide before transferring the still-smoking heap to his scales. I could have killed him, which given my fears of only a heartbeat before was the very definition of ironic.

  “What the devil are you doing now?” I asked, doing my best to sound calm. My best really wasn’t all that convincing, I must admit.

  “Supper will not be for a while,” Holmes explained, “so I decided to expand my studies from cigars to wood. It is a natural extrapolation after all as arson is one of the many crimes we have to be prepared for.” My companion was a very peculiar man. “In this case, I strolled by a nearby construction project and took some measurements. I then acquired a discarded piece of timber and doused it with alcohol, the most common type of accelerant. It was all done under quite controlled circumstances. As you requested, I have endeavoured not to burn down the building.”

  Speechless, I merely took a seat and watched as he measured and then made some notations and computations in a notebook. He appeared satisfied with his experiment and carefully brushed the now useless ash into a basket. If he were half as meticulous with the cleaning of the sitting room we would have had no call for Mrs. Hudson’s tender care.

  Finished with his work, Holmes took the seat opposite my own, fixed the makings of a pipe, and lit it, drawing deep on yet another flavour of smoke, before he indicated he was finally ready for my report. Quickly, I outlined my meeting with Lord Rowton, drawing a single nod from Holmes during the entire account. When I concluded, he slowly smiled.

  “While the government can be more efficiently run, no doubt, it is good to hear that there are some servants who never stop serving. Lord Rowton will, I hope, provide us with the clues we need to advance this case, for without more information, I fear we may fail Mrs. Wynter.” I could not argue with that. “There’s a good chap, Watson. We shall dine together and then I shall take an evening constitutional and see what may transpire.”

  “Speaking of walks, I had the queerest feeling of being followed after my meeting,” I said.

  Holmes looked up, his brow already furrowed with concern. “That is most curious as I too was shadowed while out earlier.”

  “The bounders from earlier?” I inquired.

  “Not the same men, that is to be certain,” he said. “But then again, Hampton must have a large contingent to summon for such extracurricular work.”

  “Are we in danger?”

  “At present, I should think not. We are being followed, that is all. We have given them no reason to think the people responsible for Wynter’s disappearance are about to be exposed. Indeed, I should think the man following you had no clue as to who you were meeting with or how it might connect to Wynter’s case. No, Watson, I think for now we are merely being observed. However, should we grow closer to an answer, we should be on the alert.”

  I slumped in my seat, worried he was being the master of understatement. I would have to keep my wits about me until this matter was resolved. For now, though, we were safe in our rooms and the aroma from supper was blessedly beginning to displace that of the charred wood.

  At the time it sounded an innocent enough evening, but in truth it was the beginning of the next phase of the investigation. It did not take long for either of us to realise just how deathly serious this matter was about to become.

  Five

  Rescued by Wiggins

  I intended to wait for Holmes’s return before turning in, and settled down with a snifter. The day’s affairs continued to preoccupy me. I pondered what little we knew against how much more we did not. Between my thinking and the soothing effects of the brandy I must have dozed off because there was a hammering on the street door below that brought me bolt upright in my chair as I awoke, cursing. The sky outside the window hovered between black and blue; it was very early in the morning. I could hear the clip-clop of hooves as delivery carts made their way down Baker Street.

  My first sleep-fogged thought was that the men following us had decided to become bold about their intentions but that made little sense given the hour.

  Mrs. Hudson, also awoken by the cacophony, was yelling at whoever was doing the pounding to cease right this minute so as not to wake the neighbours, though I am sure her shouts would have done as much to raise them from their slumbers as the banging. I smiled for a moment, almost pitying the person on the receiving end of her dressing down, but that smile withered and died on the vine when I realised what I wasn’t hearing: Holmes.

  I took a quick look into his room and his bed was still made. It appeared that he had been out all night. So much for an evening constitutional.

  A cry of alarm from Mrs. Hudson had me in motion instantly. I was down the stairs quickly, taking them two or three at a time as best my injury would allow, and was brought up short when I saw two figures on the threshold. One was unmistakably that of Holmes, but the other was slighter and younger. He also appeared far dirtier but once I spied the signs of blood on Holmes’s clothes, I gave up my observations of the boy.

  “Hurry! Get him upstairs. Mrs. Hudson—some hot water and rags if you please.”

  The youth and I each placed one of Holmes’s arms around our necks and awkwardly made our way up the narrow stairs to our rooms. Holmes mumbled a little, his words unintelligible. Frankly, I was glad he was making any sound. We got him to one of the dining chairs and I gingerly held up his head. There was a gash on his forehead, and I brushed away the matted, bloody hair. The cut flesh bled freely, but didn’t appear to be a serious wound. I then studied his eyes and noted they were alert if a tad unfocused. He might be concussed, but I needed to check the rest of him. Rotten-smelling refuse clung to his overcoat and both it and his shirt were mud-splattered and ripped in several places. His hands were rubbed raw in places, abrasions that would leave dark bruises as the healing began. All told, he was roughed up but in no serious danger.

  I thought again about our shadows and stifled a shiver of dread.

  The boy, who could not have been more than twelve or thirteen, appeared to have lived a life some considerable distance from bathwater. He was sturdy and had the hardened look of a street urchin.
I looked a little more closely and realised this youth was Wiggins, one of Holmes’s “street Arabs”, as he called them. At that moment, I had no idea how he had found himself mixed up in this, but a second look showed he was unmolested and therefore it was unlikely he had been involved in whatever befell my companion.

  By then, Mrs. Hudson had arrived with a steaming jug of water and several rags draped over one arm.

  “Oh my! Is he all right?” she asked, panic in her voice.

  “I will not die,” Holmes said in a croaking voice. This evidence of alertness was most welcome, even if it did little to set our landlady’s mind at rest. I sent Wiggins for cool water for Holmes to drink as I began dabbing at the grime and blood so I could better see the full extent of his wounds.

  “Holmes,” said I, “how do you feel?”

  “I am in pain, to be honest,” said he.

  I worked with practised hands, reminded once more of performing similar ministrations to those wounded in Afghanistan. Those horrid memories were rarely far from my mind and here they were made manifest in my companion, though mercifully his injuries were less severe than many I had tended, though with head wounds it was always a concern that what you didn’t see was so much worse than what you did. Holmes remained silent as I worked, no doubt recovering his strength and his remarkable wits. Wiggins brought him a small tumbler of water, which Holmes took from him and slowly sipped. The young boy stepped back and watched in fascination.

  I turned to him and asked, “What happened, Wiggins?”

  “Well, Doctor, I was out and about when I came across Mr. ’olmes. I saw he was out the night before and thought he was on a case, so I follows ’im to be on hand should he need my… ’elp.” The boy grinned then. I nodded for him to go on. “He were movin’ fairly quickly, so I had trouble keeping up and I lost ’im at one point, but he walks a reg’lar pattern, you know, so I found him quick enough, but by then he was fighting off some fellow.”

  “I think your timely arrival saved my life,” Holmes said.