Murder at Sorrow's Crown

by Steven Savile

  “The usual arrangement?” Wiggins asked.

  Holmes reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a handful of coins. “A shilling each for the day’s work should suffice. When I receive satisfactory information that proves helpful, a guinea for each.”

  The promise of additional pay energised the group of ruffians, who began dusting themselves off and running their grimy hands through tousled hair in a futile effort to improve their appearance. All thoughts to our dwindling financial resources were banished as I chuckled at their meagre efforts then turned to my companion.

  “And me, Holmes? What would you have me do?”

  “Today you rest, Watson. Take the time to consider all we have learned and all we still need to learn. Apply your own thinking to the matter and when I return, I daresay sometime this evening, we will compare notes.”

  This was perfectly acceptable to me given how tired the last few days had left me. But then I recalled the invitation to visit one of Norbert Wynter’s comrades on the Dido, Lieutenant Louis Dodge. Much as I wanted to take my leisure, I forced myself once more into the streets.

  * * *

  I took a cab to the house of Louis Dodge, just two streets from Trafalgar Square. As I emerged from the cab, I noted the sun was still shining strongly but dark storm clouds were chasing it from the horizon. I feared more rain was to come.

  It was an imposing house, and the front door was nicely polished with a brilliant bronze knocker that neatly fit my hand. It was a matter of moments before a butler answered and I presented my card.

  “Are you expected?” he asked in a soft voice.

  “I have been invited to see Lieutenant Dodge but we do not have an appointment. I just now had the free time to pay him a call,” I said.

  He nodded once, had me wait in the vestibule and went off to inform his master. Dodge, I knew from my research, was one of the three men listed as wounded during the battle at Majuba Hill. His wounds were serious enough for him to be discharged for medical reasons and this was the home of his parents.

  I had been waiting for some minutes when I heard the heavy thump of canes against thick carpet and the shuffle of footsteps. Lieutenant Dodge was a young man, but he used two sticks to assist his walking. His face was handsome and clean-shaven with bright blue eyes and slicked back hair, and he gave me an easy grin as he approached; I felt myself exhaling in relief. He might have been physically damaged, but from all appearances his mind remained whole, which was no small blessing.

  “Dr. Watson?”

  “At your service,” I replied. The butler ushered us into the drawing room where two high-backed chairs were arranged before a dormant fireplace. Dodge shuffled over and lowered himself heavily into one of them. I took the chair opposite.

  “It’s late enough in the afternoon, Markham. The single malt if you please.” The butler nodded without comment and went to a side table where he filled two small glasses with amber liquid. Once they were delivered, he left us alone.

  “You appear well enough,” I allowed as Dodge took a sip from the glass.

  “If I keep this up, they say I may need the one cane by Christmas,” Dodge said in a cheery tone. “It’s hard work.”

  “Are you in pain?”

  “You know, doctors always want to know about pain first. I don’t know why that is,” Dodge said.

  “Pain indicates whether you are healing.”

  “Good point,” he said and sipped again. I took a companionable mouthful and found it to be quite good stuff, at least fifteen years old, with a deliciously smoky flavour. “Now, sir, how may I be of service?”

  I explained my connection to Mrs. Wynter and at the mention of Norbert’s name, Dodge’s face brightened considerably.

  “Ah, Bertie! What a chap he was. The kind of man you always want at your side in a pinch. I tell you, Doctor, he was the most punctual man I had ever met. Although he was particularly poor at cards,” he chuckled at the memory, “he was one of the best darts players I ever lost a sovereign to. They wanted to turn him into a sharpshooter but he refused. Didn’t like the gunpowder, he always said.”

  I began scribbling in my notebook. “Anything you can tell me about Lieutenant Wynter would be most helpful.”

  “Happy to oblige,” Dodge replied. “He was particularly poor at telling jokes but loved hearing them, believe you me. Bertie was always going on about his girl, Caroline something.”

  “That would be Miss Caroline Burdett,” I corrected.

  “Yes, that’s right. Lovely thing. Have you met her?”

  “I recently had the pleasure.”

  “She as pretty as the picture or did he hire a model to fool us all?”

  “She is a striking woman,” I allowed.

  Dodge let out a good-natured laugh. “Good for him. They were going to get married once he got back.” At that, his features clouded over, much as the sky outside was filling with darkness. I continued to write, allowing him his thoughts.

  “That was a rough day,” Dodge finally said.

  “The battle at Majuba Hill?”

  He nodded. “Beaten by farmers we were. I watched one of our sailors get it in the neck before they got my hip. Ogle—the lieutenant in charge of the naval brigade from the Dido—warned us it was going to be bad. He wasn’t wrong, just underestimated how bad it was to be.”

  “Was Wynter with you?”

  He shook his head and drained his glass. He stared at it a long moment and I rose, took it from him and gave him a liberal second helping.

  “Bertie was with the others, mixed in with the men from the Boadicea. We all landed together that morning then were split into squads and sent around the damned hill. Last time I saw him he was marching as if we were on parade. He wasn’t taking it too seriously.”

  “Do you know what happened to him?”

  Dodge took a long pull of the Scotch. I noted his hands clenched and unclenched, likely working his way through the unwelcome memories. “He saluted me, gave me a daft grin and marched off. When the firing was over, I was carried back to the Dido to be patched up and was out of it for some time. When I came to and asked after the others, I heard there were casualties… and fatalities. Bertie never came to visit, never sent a note and it was days later before it dawned on me he must have been one of the dead.”

  Something nagged at me and I reviewed some of my earlier notes and then looked directly at Dodge, who met my gaze with clear eyes. He could clearly handle his liquor.

  “You have a question, Doctor?”

  “Mrs. Wynter had it intimated to her by the Admiralty that Norbert Wynter was not killed but may have turned coward and deserted…” Before I could finish the thought with a question, Dodge let out a shocked laugh that resembled a bark.

  “Bertie a coward? Never, Doctor. Never and a day. He may not have been the smartest man on the ship or the best card player, but he was someone we could all count on. Someone we could trust, rank be damned. Did you know he volunteered to be part of the mission? Would a coward, with so much to lose, do that? Tell me who blackens his name and we will have words.”

  I hesitated, lacking a name to offer him.

  “Tell me his name, Doctor!” Dodge’s expression had turned into one of fury. “Whoever that dog is, he was not aboard the Dido. He was not a member of that crew or he’d know better!” Then he gulped the rest of his Scotch. “It was a rotten day all around. You know, they never told us what happened. How we got so badly beaten. But from what I overheard the surgeons say, it was worse, far worse than anyone let on. I can’t believe it was just three dead and three wounded. Something’s not adding up but I never did have a head for numbers.”

  His suspicions tallied with what I had already heard. Wynter might not have been the only man missing after the battle but no one was willing to admit as much.

  There was little left to say so I politely finished my own glass and shook Dodge’s hand and took my leave. A light rain began to fall, warm to the skin given the day’s heat
, as I emerged into the street. What he told me matched what I had already heard and a clearer picture of our missing man was forming in my mind. And yet, we still had no eyewitness account of what had befallen him.

  * * *

  The remainder of that dreary day passed with a great deal of tedium. I returned to Baker Street, and after straightening my own belongings, I tidied up our sitting room, careful not to disturb Holmes’s ongoing chemical studies. Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson has learned through trial and error where she might and might not clean, which made my job easier as there were almost layers of control within the outright chaos. With those tasks accomplished, I settled into my chair and reviewed my notes. Everything his comrades had told me confirmed his mother’s suspicions and firmed my resolve that Norbert Wynter was anything but a coward. The Admiralty was obfuscating his absence if not outright lying, in addition to trying to roughly put us off the investigation. Someone would have to answer for that when this sordid affair was over.

  As the day progressed towards evening, I found myself neither making new discoveries nor drawing fresh conclusions of worth. Instead, I took a simple late lunch and enjoyed tea with Mrs. Hudson. I quickly grew restless, a testament to just how thoroughly my companion was rubbing off on me.

  As night fell, I grew increasingly anxious for Holmes to return. If questioned, I would have said that I was eager for fresh news, which was only partially true. Given the events of the last few days I would have welcomed any word that assured me of his safety.

  Finally, I heard his familiar footfalls on the stairs and I straightened up in my chair, journal in hand, ready for his report. Opening the door, he saw me in my chair and broke into a broad grin.

  “Ah, Watson, still awake. Excellent,” said Holmes, still looking every inch the perfect model of a footman.

  “Any trouble at the club?”

  “Not at all.” He sank down into the seat across from me. “Several of the staff recognised me from my previous visit and assumed I was again covering for an absence. I merely occupied myself, succeeding in appearing busy despite the fact I only served our suspects.”

  “Both Frobisher and Haldaine were at the club?”

  He nodded, then spied my journal and cocked an eyebrow at me. “More melodrama for the masses?”

  I admit, I continued to chafe under his withering criticism of my stories since he would have preferred they read like university texts, dry and to the point. And deathly dull. I chose to inject an element of thrill to my accounts of the detection process, but I never embellished. The fact that he never forbade my literary endeavours was evidence that he enjoyed the small celebrity they gave him.

  I said nothing.

  “Oh, very well,” Holmes said, divesting himself of a pair of white gloves one finger at a time. “I arrived and immediately determined that Frobisher was already present. Having had an ownership stake in the original East India Company the gentleman appears to revisit past glory by practically living at the club. I noted that he always maintains the same table and by way of preparation, suspect that he is in the habit of ordering the same meals. As a result, the staff like him because he rarely makes a fuss and his needs are easily met.

  “I served him tea and later a small lunch. I noted quickly that he appeared out of sorts, agitated. He had several of the day’s newspapers with him though he did not appear to read them. His manner spoke of having less than his normal amount of sleep and his body language spoke of great tension. Other than the basic pleasantries he said nothing to the other members of the club or the staff, myself included, which I am led to believe is most out of character.

  “Finally, in the early afternoon, nearly half past one, our co-conspirator Haldaine arrived. I marked immediately that he appeared equally tense. The pair glowered at one another for a time, neither speaking. I offered them tea but Haldaine waved me away with a demand for whiskey despite the early hour. This encouraged me, knowing well that a man who imbibed that early will likely loosen his tongue sooner rather than later.

  “So was my hope, but in fact the two men spoke little, instead flicking through the newspapers without much interest although he did make some odd margin notes in one paper, allowing me to finally obtain a sample of his handwriting. However, when another footman arrived with two copies of the latest edition of The Times, they devoured them like starving men.”

  “I haven’t left our rooms for hours,” I interrupted. “What did the papers say? Was it about Chatterton-Smythe?”

  “Inspector Gregson appears to have been correct in his assumption that the journalists of Fleet Street would emphasise the lurid details.”

  “Which was only to be expected; it is a ripe story,” I remarked.

  “There was great speculation about how this would affect the Liberals and other political nonsense, to which I paid little heed. But once the news spread, it was almost the sole topic under discussion by other members of the club. While few knew him, all knew of him. And it was at this point that Haldaine finally said something that caught my attention. ‘Things have gone too far. Maybe the time has come to shut down the entire operation.’ As you might imagine, Frobisher was not best pleased by the prospect, which confirmed to me that we were skirting close to the very heart of the matter. It was clear that Frobisher at least and perhaps both men were behind Chatterton-Smythe’s death. There was no surprise, they did not remark on the particulars of his death, merely on the fact that events had progressed too far. But that is hardly proof for the court.”

  “Or why, Holmes. There is no motive. Or rather, we do not know what it is.”

  “That’s where you are wrong, my dear Watson,” Holmes said. “Frobisher started talking about the money the operation has cost them to date, accounting for the funds expended on bringing in the foreign operatives, which I took to mean Nayar and his colleagues. He was most insistent that more revenue be generated in order to replenish their reserves. That set me to thinking about how Nayar was paid.”

  “In diamonds,” said I, following my companion’s chain of thought. “Diamonds from African mines.”

  Holmes nodded in agreement. “They want more diamonds from those self-same mines.”

  “But Haldaine wants to end things?”

  “So it seems. And clearly he was not the only one, for he said ‘Chatterton-Smythe was right. He saw that every passing day was bringing us closer to exposure.’ Frobisher, though, disagreed. ‘I will do nothing of the sort. We have invested years into this operation and need to bring it to a satisfactory, not a hasty, close. Just because a paper is signed on means everything changes, nothing changes. These things take time.’”

  I was always amazed at my companion’s power of recall. He could recount great tracts of conversation word for word while I often struggled to remember what I had had for breakfast that day.

  “Haldaine seemed subdued and suggested that their efforts to derail the signing of the treaty might still work but he was clearly concerned,” Holmes went on. “But by their own confession, the pair hired the Indian criminals to delay the treaty signing to benefit their mining scheme. We apparently did not dig deep enough into researching the mines, Watson, something we need to address tomorrow.”

  “Dig deeper? My god, Holmes, did you just make a pun?” Holmes glared at me, rather unamused.

  “Quite unintentional, Watson, this is no time for jokes of any sort. We need to do more research into the mines in and around Pretoria. These are the final strands of the web, Watson. We are close to understanding everything.”

  “Back to Lomax and the stacks?” I asked.

  “No, we need government documents, we need current maps, and ownership papers. I suggest you sleep as much as you can tonight so you are fresh for what promises to be a lengthy spell of dreariness.”

  I was about to rise and do as he suggested, when there was a banging at the street door. I could hear Mrs. Hudson exclaim, “This is no time to be making such a racket! There are proper people trying to sleep!” which br
ought a ghost of a smile to my companion’s lips. Then the street door opened and someone came rushing up the stairs, taking them two or three at a time.

  Wiggins burst into our rooms, Mrs. Hudson hot on his heels. “You just don’t go barging into other people’s homes, young man!”

  “It’s perfectly alright, Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes assured her, rising from his chair. “Wiggins is always welcome at my door.”

  “Well, be that as it may, Mr. Holmes, there’s a way of doing things, and banging on the door fit to raise the dead isn’t it.”

  “My apologies, Mrs. Hudson. Wiggins, apologise to Mrs. Hudson.”

  The boy bowed deeply, almost folding himself in two as he begged her indulgence. His grin betrayed the fact he was far from serious, but it was good to see that the lad was none the worse for his exertions. He seemed bright-eyed and most excited about something. He looked fit to burst with information.

  “Got some news you want to ’ear tonight, guv’nor,” he said, loudly. “The two men you had us follow. The skinny one went over to the Lamb and Flag for some nasty business.”

  “Mrs. Hudson, would you be so kind as to bring young Wiggins some water? Thank you,” Holmes said. To Wiggins he continued: “Have a seat and give us all the detail you can muster.”

  “This has got to be worth a guinea if not two,” he said, taking Holmes’s normal seat.

  “The details first, if you please,” Holmes said with a smile, clearly enjoying the ruffian’s company and mercenary manner. “I will decide how much they are worth.”

  “Right you are. So, Tommy and Pig Boy followed the fat one…”

  “Edward Haldaine is his name,” Holmes filled in.

  “Haldaine, right you are,” Wiggins said. “Me and three of the others followed the skinny man…”