“That all makes good sense, Holmes, but at the risk of seeming like an idiot, I cannot fathom why this is happening. I see that it is, obviously, but I am at a loss to understand the whys and wherefores that would normally draw the strands of a case together. It feels like we are no closer to a solution than we were before and yet you have been attacked not once but twice, which would suggest we are close to our ultimate goal, surely? So how can I not see it?”
Holmes’s smile was almost indulgent. “All will become clear, I believe, now that the distraction has passed. We begin by determining the motivation.”
“And how, pray tell, do we do that?”
“The question starts with: who would benefit from all this madness? If Wynter was indeed mixed up in all this, as it would seem on the most superficial level, did he see something in South Africa he should not have and was killed for it? There are more questions of course: why kill Disraeli? Why kill the solicitor in South Africa? I daresay, at present, we are no closer to answering any of these questions than we were a few days ago, but our enemy does not know that. They see our actions and believe them to be reactions, I think.”
“Then let us examine these questions one at a time,” I suggested.
“Very good. It will help pass the hours productively. Perhaps we shall even deduce something. Let’s start with The Times article on the solicitor, Charles Lewis. It mentioned that he was working on a treaty, presumably assisting in a legal capacity. Could it be our treaty, which is currently being worked on in Newcastle even as we hasten our way there? Was Lewis brought in by the Boer government to prepare their demands? Perhaps his death, if it were the first of several, could sow seeds of fear among the international delegation gathering for the signing? For all we know, others have died the same way. It is only our luck that one such death merited reporting in an English newspaper.”
I nodded in agreement, following my companion’s reasoning, terrified at the thought that others might die. It was possible.
“Now that we know that there are at least two Indian assassins in play,” Holmes began, but I had to interrupt.
“Holmes, could this be one of those death cults I have heard about?” I inquired.
He chuckled mirthlessly and shook his head. “Actually, Watson, history shows there were only two organisations that might possibly be considered death cults. The lesser known of the two is the Aghori ascetics, worshippers of Shiva the Destroyer. They believe that contact with the dead will enable them to better understand the true nature of the universe. They trace their origins to Kina Ram, who left the mortal realm a century ago, having lived for some one hundred and fifty years. Whilst active very little knowledge of them has filtered west.
“The popular literature, though, has glorified the Thuggee cult, which is now considered extinct. One of the better things the East India Company and Her Majesty’s army did was eradicate these killers from Indian society. They faded from sight in the last century and once they were considered gone for good, the Criminal Tribes Act was passed in 1871. Therefore, a cult of killers is not a practical answer to the question of the Indians. It is far more likely they were independently contracted.”
“How on earth do you know all this?” I asked.
“Obviously, I have read up on such options once I identified the weapon that nearly dismembered me,” he said.
I merely nodded at that, knowing he would immediately forget this information at the case’s conclusion.
Holmes continued to say, “We do not need to assume that the first, Nayar, was responsible both for Disraeli’s death in England and Lewis’s death in South Africa. There are likely several, one of whom killed Lewis, while Nayar himself hastened Disraeli’s death. That is my current hypothesis. Now, ask yourself who would gain from his passing? He was out of office and was little more than an irritant as Conservative leader.”
“But before that, he was vehemently in favour of peace,” said I.
“Which someone did not want to happen, for their own purposes,” Holmes added, a smile on his lips.
“How did his death influence the peace treaty with the Boers?” asked Holmes. “The fighting had ended by the time he took ill.”
“I daresay I have no clue, Holmes,” I admitted.
“Think, Watson. If this conspiracy is as large as it appears, money is being expended. One spends money in the expectation of making more. This leads me back to the men of means.”
“You mean Frobisher, Haldaine, and that MP fellow, Chatterton-Smythe?”
“They seem the most likely candidates, given the current limits of our knowledge. After all, they were the ones to mention an Indian mystic and we have one in the same town where the castor beans arrive. All very convenient.”
When we finally disembarked at York for a hasty lunch, we caught sight of the local constabulary taking charge of our would-be murderer. I suspected they had not had his like to deal with before.
Eleven
A Rematch with a Killer
The sun was long past the horizon when we crossed the Tyne, no glow to glimmer welcome across the tightly packed rooftops of the miners’ cottages and endless terraces. I was not sure what to expect as we disembarked in Newcastle. We followed a path through what can only be described as one of the seedier districts I have ever had the displeasure of visiting that led, incredibly, to one of the most beautiful streets I have ever seen. The buildings were predominately four storeys, with vertical dormers, domes, turrets and spikes, designed by the architect Richard Grainger. We were in Grainger Town, within which stood the Theatre Royal where Nayar was said to be performing his final shows as the entertaining mystic.
Holmes suggested that I find us rooms while he went to the theatre, where I would join him. I secured us temporary lodging at a small inn and was strolling towards the theatre on Grey Street, when Holmes appeared around a corner.
I could tell from his hunched shoulders that something was amiss. “He cancelled this evening’s performance,” said he without preamble.
“Can we not wait until tomorrow’s?” I asked.
“No. It appears the notice we saw in The Times was out of date. Tonight was to be a final curtain call. Word reached him of our coming and he refuses to make himself a target.”
“No doubt the same ones who arranged for the attack on the train,” I surmised. “A telegram would have outpaced us, even if the people orchestrating this are back in London.”
“Most likely true,” said he, his frustration palpable. “I believe our next destination is the quayside where, if I have judged this right, he may well be trying to leave on an earlier boat.” He set off to marching down the steep hill of Grey Street.
“Holmes!” I called after him. “You’ve been through much these last few days. Should we not go to bed and start afresh in the morning?”
His eyes were blazing with intent. “Nonsense, Watson. How will we feel in the morning if we go to the docks and learn he has fled? We must go now.”
I could not argue with his point so accompanied him, assuming he intended to take a cab to the Port of Tyne, which was in point of fact some considerable distance outside of the city proper. Not so. He led me a hurried chase down Grey Street, which turned into Dean Street as it curved around to the bonded warehouses on the waterfront. This was where the Keelmen operated, hauling coal from both sides of the river onto tugs that would take them down to the mouth of the great river where they would in turn be loaded onto colliers and shipped to destinations all across the country. Holmes announced that we would catch a ride with one of the keel crews to the port, which would be considerably faster than a carriage, though much less comfortable. Given that we would be sailing with twenty chaldrons of coal, it would be much dirtier, too. It meant parting with a few coins, but we found a skipper willing to transport us, and kept company with his two crewmen and a boy they called a pee dee, although I must confess I have no idea what this rather peculiar title implied.
When we arrived at the Port of
Tyne, it was fairly dark with few people visible, though the sound of activity was near constant, the loading and unloading of coal going on apace. It was likely that while there were ships scheduled to depart that evening, none would carry commercial passengers. Still, Holmes wanted to verify that information so we found the harbourmaster, a man in a thick sweater, despite the summer temperature, and inquired about outbound ships. As expected, he confirmed that the next departure was not until eight the following morning and no, it was not scheduled to carry any passengers.
“Now, Holmes, I insist we go to the inn and you get some sleep,” I said, knowing that it would take us a good hour to get back to our lodging house, and he readily agreed. This time we were forced to travel by carriage. It was the very height of luxury in contrast to the outward journey.
As it neared our inn in Grainger Town, we heard a tumult of cries and ringing bells on the streets. Then we saw the yellow flickers of light dancing up and down the stone facades of the nearby buildings.
As we drew closer, I gasped in astonishment as I spied that it was our very inn that was burning! The flames roared high, out of control, as a makeshift fire brigade of men and women passed buckets back and forth, tossing water through the downstairs windows in a futile effort to fight back the flames before they could consume the buildings on either side. A wagon approached and with it a pump to help extinguish the blaze.
Bystanders clustered on the street, and we could hear the words spreading: was there anyone inside? I hadn’t even considered that eventuality. My heart sank. Could someone have died because of us? It did not bear thinking of.
I hastened to see if anyone was in need of my medical skill, leaving Holmes to scan the crowds, seeking out Nayar or one of his potential compatriots in their number. When I returned, he shook his head. We did not need to speak for me to know his thoughts. Clearly Nayar had yet to flee the city and while we had been hunting him, he had been hunting us. But it also meant we had every opportunity to find and apprehend him. I was relishing the thought of clapping him in irons, but had to temper that with the collateral damage he had caused. Thankfully, no one was in need of a doctor, but I stayed close to see if the firemen needed my assistance when the first of them finally emerged from the building.
I watched as they worked quickly and saw to it the nearby structures would remain sound. The inn itself, I judged, would survive although it would be in need of extensive repair. The fire was contained and the police began clearing away the crowds. As things settled down, Holmes beckoned for me to join him as he approached a large, older man who was clearly in charge, police sergeant by his stripes. He initially ignored my companion, barking out orders and waving his arm as he continued to direct the movements of his officers like the great Hans von Bülow himself, his men dancing to his tune. Finally, he realised we required his attention and with a slight rise of the hand, gestured for us to be patient. He yelled at two boys who were still in nightclothes as they neared the charred, damp remains of one corner of the building. They scurried away. He let out a frustrated sigh and turned to us.
“What may I do for you gentlemen?”
“My name is Holmes, and my companion is Dr. Watson. We are up from London on business and have information as to what may have happened here.”
“Is that so? Perhaps you should explain yourself, Mr. Holmes?”
“Indeed.” Holmes missed the suspicion in the man’s tone. “I am a consulting detective, having worked with Scotland Yard on numerous occasions. We are here in Newcastle trying to find the whereabouts of an Indian performer, a mystic named Nayar—”
“Performers are at the Royal, not the inn,” the sergeant said in a weary tone.
“Not so. The mystic cancelled this evening’s performance, sir,” Holmes said, smoothly. “We have reason to believe he was alerted to our presence and this fire is nothing more than an attempt to keep us occupied so he might escape the city.”
“Why on earth would he do that?”
“We believe he is involved in a complex and deadly case that has its origins in London.” Holmes now had the man’s attention. “As it was, we were attacked on the train this very afternoon which your confederates in York may confirm for you. We are of the opinion that Nayar’s accomplice was behind that particular assault, and that word of our arrival was sent ahead, directing the man to flee.”
“Well, I’ll be…” the sergeant began.
“We believe,” Holmes said pointedly, “that this fire was a second attack on our persons within twenty-four hours, and the third since we have begun our investigation.”
“How so?”
“My companion had only a few hours since secured us board in this very inn, and, if I am not mistaken, the fire originated there.” Holmes pointed up at one of the windows, which, I realised sickeningly, was our room. The man nodded his agreement. “Watson, are those our rooms?” I nodded, weakly.
“You have my attention, Mr. Holmes.”
“My intention is to apprehend Nayar, and with your help, take him into custody.”
“Nayar… the Indian fakir who’s been performing at the Theatre Royal?”
“The very same,” I confirmed.
“As I said,” Holmes continued, “he cancelled his final performances, but I am rather hoping our arrival took him by surprise and caused him to move with unexpected haste. With a little fortune, he may well have been forced to leave his possessions behind at either the theatre or his lodging house.”
“Let’s go take a look, shall we?”
The theatre was just a few short streets away across Grainger Town. It was dark, presumably because Nayar had cancelled his performance. We passed five huge columns that dominated the building’s façade and turned left onto a narrow side street, which led to the stage door.
The police sergeant, who had finally given us his name as Harmony, rapped a large-knuckled hand on the door. It took a moment before a custodian, a thin, old man, unlocked it, and it was apparent that the two men knew one another. He let us in, and Holmes fidgeted in the carpeted passageway as Sergeant Harmony exchanged pleasantries with the man, whom he addressed as Mr. Rose. Finally the conversation drifted to the reason of our visit, and Rose agreed to take us to the dressing room recently vacated by Nayar, away down a dusty corridor.
There was an eerie yellowish glow to the room that had been assigned to the fakir, and as Holmes had surmised, it was obvious he had left in great haste. From the doorway I could see robes in exotic colours and unfamiliar fabrics scattered atop a steamer trunk while the dressing table was festooned with bracelets, makeup, and half a dozen purple feathers, the use for which baffled me. Harmony moved to enter the room, no doubt with the intention of poking around through the fakir’s belongings, but Holmes held up a hand. “Sir, if you would be so kind as to stay outside and permit me to examine things in situ first, we might save a considerable amount of time.”
“Won’t you be wanting to see if we can find his boat tickets and such like?” the sergeant asked.
“We will get to all that in due time, my good man. But first, I must study things as they are. I will learn far more from that than from turning the place over. I have, you might say, a facility for observation and deduction.” These were words I had heard him use time and again since we first took rooms together in March. There was no trace of modesty in them, merely the truth.
Harmony remained unconvinced, and crossed his arms with some impatience.
“You see, Sergeant Harmony,” Holmes continued, “I have made a study of crime. On several occasions I have steered Scotland Yard clear of making colossal errors.”
“Is that so,” Harmony said, his voice laced with the heavy scepticism I had come to expect from those who had not encountered my companion before.
“Indeed it is,” Holmes said, oblivious. “It all comes down to a finite set of rules regarding deduction. For example, in the short time we have been acquainted, I have discerned you smoke cigarettes and have for some years, alo
ng with at least three cups of tea a day. Additionally, you are unmarried and live on your own. Finally, you had white fish, cod I think, and spinach for your supper.”
“How in the blue blazes could you know all that? Have you been following me?” Harmony demanded.
Holmes shook his head. “It is really quite simple, actually. Your teeth have a yellowish cast to them, something that comes with the consumption of tea. Based on the shade, I can surmise the quantity you drink daily. There is a similar discolouration between your index and middle fingers of your right hand. That implies tobacco, but the staining is slight enough to suggest the thinner cigarette rather than the cigar. You live alone and therefore do your own ironing, which explains the wrinkles in your shirt and trousers. On the other hand, without a wife to occupy your time, you take extra care to polish your shoes, which are extremely carefully maintained. I would estimate you ritually polish and brush them every evening.”
“Uncanny,” Harmony muttered. The man had turned a bright shade of red, more out of embarrassment than anger, and Mr. Rose was chuckling.
“As for your dinner. There is a fish bone stuck to your sleeve and a morsel of spinach between your top left canine and incisor. I would surmise you were dining when you were summoned to the fire and left in haste.”
“Don’t deny it,” I told Harmony. “He does this to me and everyone he meets. It is disconcerting, but it also makes him the single best detective in England.”
“You better be detecting then,” he said, waving his hand toward the dressing room, indicating Holmes had won for now.
Holmes entered the room and withdrew his magnifying glass from his inside coat pocket. He began examining not the things on the dressing table, but the table itself, the chair and even the floor. He used a pencil to poke at the rubbish in the metal basket beneath the table. He then settled his inspection on the steamer trunk, poking at its contents with his pencil, moving things back and forth. Finally, he reached under a pair of shoes more befitting a child than a man and withdrew several small pieces of paper. With the glass, he looked beneath the shoes once more then rose to his feet.
Murder at Sorrow's Crown Page 15
