“The only avenue open to us, I fear, is to take this to Scotland Yard. Although since the Yard answers to the government, it’s only a slim chance. Now, Holmes, what was all that about with your notebook? Was there some connection with the map?”
“Indeed, Watson, a vital clue. I believe I have deciphered the numbers,” said he.
I was trying to recall which numbers he meant when my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of fast-approaching footsteps. I turned and saw Petey, one of the Baker Street Irregulars, haring towards us pell-mell.
“However did you find us?” Holmes questioned the boy, as he gasped, hands on knees, gazing up at us.
“Well,” he managed after a moment. “After the attack the other day, Wiggo decided one of us needed to keep an eye on you, Mr. Holmes.”
“Very resourceful, our young Wiggins is,” Holmes said. “Now, boy, what’s the message?”
“The fat man dies tonight!”
Interlude
This concludes the initial account as recorded by Dr. John Watson during the time of the events. What follows was written subsequently and was kept by Dr. Watson in a locked box, and found amongst his personal effects. The following chapters were written between six months and no more than a year after the events concluded.
These additional passages were discovered by the doctor’s descendants and after a time, brought to Her Majesty’s Government where they were reunited with another journal—that which contained the initial account above—pertaining to the Sorrow’s Crown investigation, completing the full account of what happened in the summer of 1881.
This unified report is revealed for the first time.
Fifteen
Murder Most Foul
“Watson, it is imperative we keep Haldaine alive,” Holmes instructed, as if there could ever have been any doubt. In the absence of government records, the man’s knowledge was vital to any satisfactory resolution. It was imperative we do all we could to keep Haldaine alive.
“Where is this to happen?”
“Barton Street, where he lives,” Petey answered.
“To Barton Street, hurry on, chaps, hurry on!” Holmes directed us. The young street Arab, having gathered his second wind, was off like a shot.
“I will summon Gregson,” I said.
“Capital,” Holmes said, and turned to follow the boy into the dimming night. They were gone before I could bat an eye.
I knew Gregson kept late hours, especially when working on an investigation, so I turned back towards Piccadilly and waited for the familiar sound of an approaching cab to transport me to Metropolitan Police Headquarters on the north side of Great Scotland Yard. As I stood there in my impatience, I fancied the sense that I was being watched but as I scanned the streets I saw nothing and wrote it off as just nerves. The journey seemed interminable. I felt a deep gnawing anxiety that would not cease. Holmes, still recovering from his injuries, was going once more into battle, but this time I was not at his side. Not that my presence would have made much difference in the grand scheme of things, but there was no denying the fact that he had been fortunate to escape multiple attempts on his life and another such encounter might be more than the fickle gods of fate would favour.
Arriving at the station, I hastened through the doors, and was surprised at how busy it was, even as the evening was upon us. The main counter was bustling with activity. Men and women of all ages crowded in to speak with the desk sergeant on the opposite side. Behind him, a variety of uniformed and shirt-sleeved men moved back and forth. I tried to work a path through the throng to reach the sergeant in charge, intending to inquire if Gregson, or even Lestrade, were on the premises.
The din was disconcerting after hours spent in the relative silence of the Lords Library. It was an assault on my ears: people with lost dogs, stolen purses, battered or robbed in some fashion they wouldn’t have wanted their spouses to learn about. Each and every one of them felt that they absolutely needed to present their case first and the exasperated desk sergeant waved his arms to order silence, but to little avail.
Deciding to adopt the same approach as those others present, I took a deep breath and bellowed: “My name is Dr. John Watson and it is vital I speak with Inspector Gregson!” My voice carried over the hubbub, and the desk sergeant’s eyes met mine. “Is there some way you could determine if he is present?”
As I had hoped, my title caught his attention. He nodded. “Let me see if I can be of some help, Doctor.”
He disappeared through a door behind the wooden counter.
I waited for more than a quarter-hour before Gregson finally emerged. He scanned the crowd of faces, no doubt looking for Holmes. Confused to see me alone, he came hurrying over. “Whatever is wrong, Dr. Watson?”
“I need you to accompany me to Barton Street, Inspector. Holmes has been informed a crime is being planned,” I said. “It is imperative we make haste.”
“What sort of crime?” But I was in no mood to stand there and explain myself. Every second was of the essence.
“Let us make haste. I will give you the details on the way: a murder is being planned and I need your help accessing several classified government files! But let us be on our way!” I turned towards the entrance, my action a signal, I hoped, that time was not to be wasted.
“I can help you with the former,” Gregson said, on my heels. “But what do you mean classified files? I don’t follow.”
We reached the street, and he signalled to a constable to bring around a police carriage. “I believe we should bring some assistance if murder is under discussion,” he said.
I was not of a mind to argue; there is a comfort in numbers, especially well-trained numbers of uniformed constables, although it did make me reluctant to fully detail everything to Gregson while others might overhear. As the carriage hurried towards Barton Street, I explained that Holmes had received intelligence regarding an attempt on Haldaine’s life and his connection to Chatterton-Smythe, and how in turn that all connected to the dead Indian Nayar and our case.
Gregson absorbed the information slowly, gravely nodding his head every now and then.
“What’s all this about classified files, man? How the devil does that connect with your investigation?”
“Let us discuss that aspect of the case once we have averted this heinous crime,” I said, not wishing to reveal Holmes’s reasoning until it was just us three.
The carriage made good progress to Barton Street, the horses moving at a brisk clip. The street was lined with large, older homes that spoke of wealth and pedigree. The streets were well lit in this part of town, but there were still shadows and places where mischief could be conducted aplenty. In fact, as we rounded a corner, we spotted a cluster of people and I feared the worst.
Instead, as we grew closer I recognised Holmes standing in front of one of the large houses, surrounded by eight ruffians. I marked Wiggins amongst them. Each boy brandished a billy club. Lying on the ground before them I saw a singular shape: a fallen man, extremely large in stature, with a bald head and a nose that had clearly been broken long before Wiggins and his fellows got their hands on him. I was sure it was the man Wiggins had described, the man Frobisher had hired at the Lamb and Flag. He was quite clearly unconscious, the butt of an extinguished cigar dangling from his slack mouth.
I emerged from the carriage and hastened to his side to check on his condition. His pulse was steady, as was his breathing, so I left him and rushed to Holmes’s side.
The boys recognised me and let me through their cordon.
“Watson, whatever took you so long? Good evening, Inspector.”
Gregson merely nodded at Holmes and studied the fallen man sprawled out across the pavement. Upon seeing that he was a man of the law, the boys quickly made their weapons vanish—into deep pockets, stuffed down trouser legs, and in one case, shoved under a cap—as they melted back to allow him through. Gregson chuckled to himself but made no move to chastise any of them.
Hol
mes spoke. “These boys alerted me to an assassination attempt on Edward Haldaine, so I came here to make sure that did not come to pass. As it was, we arrived at a most opportune moment, finding this bounder laying in wait for Haldaine. When I called him out, the fool tried to attack me, but as you can tell, it did not go well for him. I was more than protected.” He looked around at Wiggins and the other boys. “They laid him out and then stood guard until you arrived.”
Gregson turned to the two constables who had travelled with us. “Collect this unfortunate fellow and take him back to the Yard for questioning.” They did as he instructed, lifting the fallen man and carrying him to the carriage. Gregson approached Holmes and looked about. “Where is Mr. Haldaine?”
“Safely inside his house,” Holmes said.
Pulling out a notebook and pencil, Gregson looked intently at Holmes. “From the beginning, leave nothing out, Holmes, if you please. What happened here?”
“Very well, Inspector,” Holmes began. “I tasked Wiggins and his compatriots to follow Mr. Haldaine from his place of business, as I had reason to believe that an attempt would be made on his life—they had previously overheard a business arrangement between the man you have taken into custody and an associate of Mr. Haldaine. However, they were not as subtle as they should have been, and Haldaine must have heard their footsteps, for once in sight of home he broke into a run, unaware it was actually Wiggins and his gang coming to his aid. By then, I had arrived on the street, in time to see his assailant step out of an alley to intercept him. I called out to the would-be murderer, and aimed my pistol at him, which stopped him in his tracks.”
“I see,” said Gregson.
“Haldaine continued running, not looking more than once in my direction. His attacker turned toward me, a mistake on his part, as it meant he was ill prepared for Wiggins and the boys, who arrived and beat him rather soundly.”
Holmes took that moment to reach into a pocket, withdraw some coins and hand them to the Irregulars. “If this carries on, you will drain my coffers for good. But you have proved invaluable yet again.”
“That’s nice of you to say, guv’nor,” said Wiggins.
“I think, though, that I will have no further need of your protection this evening. Inspector Gregson will be sufficient.”
“If you say so, Mr. Holmes, but if you don’t mind me saying, he might be an inspector and all, but he’s just one and we’re eight,” Petey said, offering a wry dirt-smeared grin.
“One of him may well be worth the eight of you,” I said. The street Arabs made derisive noises at that, and their scoffing earned them a look of distaste from the inspector. Having pocketed their pay, the gaggle of boys disappeared into the night.
I must admit, they were beginning to grow on me.
“Has Haldaine emerged since?” asked Gregson.
“No.”
“I ought to have a word with him, let him know that everything here is well in hand,” Gregson said. He rapped on the front door, eschewing the lion-headed knocker in favour of his tight fist. The sound reverberated through the darkness. I realised just how quiet it was.
A thin-faced butler opened the door. Gregson identified himself, asking to speak with Haldaine. The butler gestured for Gregson to enter, and the inspector nodded for us to follow, but Holmes shook his head. Gregson looked confused, then shrugged, and entered the house alone.
“Holmes, are you quite well?”
“I am indeed, Watson, why do you ask?”
“Over the past few days you have gone without food and sleep, been attacked twice and have been obsessing over this case, but now you are offered the opportunity to enter the house of one of our chief suspects you decline?”
“You have little to fear. I feel perfectly adequate, and most certainly able to see this through to its proper conclusion.” With that matter settled to his satisfaction if not my own, he turned his gaze to me and inquired, “Have you asked the inspector about the files?”
“I mentioned them, yes, but he would like more information,” I said.
“Very well,” he said, and fell silent as we awaited Gregson’s return.
When the inspector finally emerged, he looked thoughtful. “There is a public house just a few streets away. Why don’t we repair there and share information?” Having gone most of the day without food, this seemed a capital idea to me. My stomach was of the opinion that my throat must have been cut.
“Holmes, I do think sharing information might be in order,” I said. “There is much we don’t know, and the inspector could well be the man to help fill those gaps in our knowledge.”
We walked to the pub in silence. Within, the air was thick with smoke and stale beer. It was not the most salubrious of venues, neither was it the quietest. Both served our purpose well. I bought three pints from the bar, then joined Gregson and Holmes at a table, who sat opposite one another. Holmes leaned forward. “Let us begin this exchange with a frank account of what Haldaine just told you, if you please?”
If Gregson had expected to begin the questions he showed no sign of irritation or surprise. “He was scared out of his wits, Mr. Holmes. He claimed to have no idea what happened, or why. His version of events matches yours well enough.”
“That is because it is what happened, and exactly as it happened,” Holmes agreed.
“What I found interesting is that he didn’t so much as ask who you were—even though he saw you point your weapon at the man lying in wait for him—or the man himself.”
“Curious, indeed,” I noted, but Holmes seemed less surprised.
“Of course not,” Holmes said. “A police inspector asking questions might draw attention to Haldaine’s other dealings. No doubt he knows all too well who ordered the attack: his partner in crime, William Francis Frobisher. Haldaine’s life is very much at risk. The irony is he dare not so much as point an accusatory finger towards Frobisher for fear of exposing their crimes. He is tangled in the heart of his own web. I doubt he will rest tonight.”
“That’s just as well,” I said.
“Now, Holmes,” Gregson cut across our conversation, “I want to know what is going on here. I want to know all about these files you want and I want a solid reason why I should even attempt to get hold of them, should I actually be able to.”
Holmes studied the inspector, then began telling a tale of murder, treachery and betrayal that spanned continents. “I am closing in on the secrets behind a series of murders, a line that stretches from here to Newcastle by way of India and South Africa.”
“What happened in Newcastle?” Gregson asked, confused.
“Plenty,” I said. “But most telling is the significance of the castor beans.” The inspector looked at me blankly for a moment, but Holmes wore an expression of approval. He too had made the connection, presumably from the short article about the death of the clerk working on the treaty we had read on the train on the way to the wrong Newcastle. “Newcastle, in Africa, is where the peace treaty to end the Boer conflict is being prepared for signature in just a few days. Initially we had wrongly assumed it was Newcastle upon Tyne, convinced to pursue a line of thought by the import of castor beans and the touring schedule of the fakir. A quite different murder involving the extract of castor beans should have pointed us in the right direction much earlier,” I admitted.
Gregson blinked twice at that and then folded his hands before him. “Continue.”
I sat quietly, sipping my beer, as Holmes detailed what we knew and what we had learned since we last met. He began at the beginning, outlining how a mother’s grief had brought us to the Admiralty and how we had been pushed from pillar to post in an attempt to deflect our inquiries. As the story unfolded, Gregson’s demeanour changed, the inspector becoming intent. Holmes recounted our misapprehension and journey north to the wrong Newcastle, the attack on the train and our suspicions as to the identities of the attackers, including Nayar, and the discovery of his diamond, and how that had been confirmed to be a poor quality South
African rough cut. As Holmes explained about the secret designations on the maps, he concluded with, “Gregson, there must be a reason the government has marked those portions of the map as secret, but without documentation connecting those locations to Frobisher, Haldaine, and the dead Chatterton-Smythe, we have no evidence for a judge and risk a murderer walking free.”
“You make a compelling case, Holmes, but I must be truthful with you.” Gregson shook his head, obviously struggling with all that we had told him. “I am not sure even Scotland Yard will be able to manage to get you those files. We serve at the government’s pleasure. Worse, if you are wrong, and there is a legitimate reason that they have been classified, some matter of national security, it could mean trouble for all of us. I’d be putting my job on the line, Holmes. You do understand that, don’t you? I can’t afford for you to be wrong.”
“I am not wrong,” the detective said, absolutely sure of himself. “And I know you will endeavour to obtain those files for us.” It wasn’t a question.
“More fool me,” Gregson said.
Sixteen
Declassified
The following morning was gloomy, which certainly befit our mood. We had scant evidence to link Frobisher with the attempt on Haldaine’s life, only Wiggins’s word that he had heard Frobisher hire the would-be assassin at the Lamb and Flag. The word of a street Arab would not hold up at the Old Bailey. We needed the arrested man to confess to the crime and implicate Frobisher, or for Frobisher himself to confess to ordering the death of the shipping magnate, both of which were unlikely eventualities as things stood. Even though we had Gregson’s word he was going to try to access the classified papers, I did not think an inspector with so few years of service would be a match for parliamentary bureaucracy. I must confess I was not altogether hopeful. I sat in my chair, having updated my journal, mulling over what we had learned. Holmes played his violin for a while, but soon joined me in front of the fire.
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