Murder at Sorrow's Crown

by Steven Savile

  “Do you expect Gregson to prove successful?” I inquired, more to break the silence between us than anything else.

  “That remains to be seen, Watson,” said he. “While the inspector is undeniably one of the best of a bad lot when it comes to the finer practices of detection, his skills with the machinations of government remain to be seen.”

  “What if the hoodlum does not confess to being hired to murder Haldaine?”

  “He will, I think, with the right incentives. I would very much like to question him myself.”

  “What makes you so certain he will talk to you or anyone else?”

  “I may not be able to break his resistance,” Holmes observed, “but if he begins denying the obvious, who better to pierce his pretence and force a confession? In fact, rather than sit here waiting for Gregson, we should make haste to Scotland Yard and make it our duty to have a word with the blaggard.”

  Suddenly fired with ambition, Holmes was on his feet and reaching for his coat. Even before he had one arm into it he was dashing for the door. I hastily put on my own jacket and chased him down the stairs, out the door, and into the street. As chance would have it, there was a hansom at the kerb. Holmes was already pulling the door open as I closed the door to 221B.

  Minutes later the cab was drawing up before the Yard. Holmes entered and strode to the wooden counter with great purpose, leaving me to pay the driver before I caught up with him. The desk sergeant recognised my companion.

  “Mr. Holmes isn’t it?”

  “Indeed, Sergeant.”

  “And what can we do for you today, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I would very much like to question the gentleman Inspector Gregson brought here yesterday evening. Picked up on Barton Street.”

  The sergeant grimaced. “I know you consult with Inspectors Gregson and Lestrade, sir, and normally I would be happy to help you, but Inspector Gregson is currently out of the building. I can’t let you see his collars without his say so.”

  “What of Lestrade? He should be interested in what the prisoner has to say.”

  The sergeant checked his desk register, nodded, and bade us wait for a moment as he disappeared into the bowels of the building. He was gone for several minutes, leaving us to study the desperate and the disenfranchised in the hall, until he emerged with Lestrade. He did not appear best pleased to see us.

  The dark-eyed, hunch-shouldered inspector did not bother with greetings. He met my companion’s eye and with a weary hand, gestured for us to follow him.

  We trailed through narrow hallways and down a flight of stairs to the basement. Lestrade opened a door with a heavy key, then locked it again behind us, before leading us deeper still through a series of locking gates until we reached the interview room where our prisoner was being held.

  Haldaine’s attacker sat in a chair before a table, his hands cuffed. His face was badly bruised, no doubt the work of the Baker Street Irregulars and their billy clubs.

  He looked almost as pleased to see us as Lestrade had.

  “All we got so far is that his name is Alf, no surname,” Lestrade said. “Ask your questions, Holmes. I will remain as witness.”

  “Very kind of you,” Holmes said, and took a seat directly opposite the prisoner.

  Alf was a surly-looking fellow to say the least. His teeth were chipped and black, and his bald head was coated with grime. He also smelled as if he had not seen or used soap in days. His clothing, all in dark fabric, was cheap and well worn.

  “Alf,” said Holmes, “can you tell me what brought you to Barton Street last night?”

  “Taking an after-dinner constitutional, your lordship,” said he, with a rough voice filled with contempt.

  “Nonsense. You had no business being on Barton Street save to make mischief. Specifically, I put it to you, you were there to commit some act of bodily harm to a man named Edward Haldaine.”

  The bruiser shrugged, the handcuffs restricting his movement. “That’s what you say. Don’t make it true.”

  “It is more than that, Alf, it is what I know, and I promise you I shall prove it. When I do, you won’t find yourself in prison, you’ll be heading down Dead Man’s Walk, waiting to swing by the neck.”

  “Won’t happen,” said Alf, cocksure and arrogant. “I was out walking and those brats took me down, attempting to mug me. That’s how it happened. That’s all there is to know.”

  “Stuff and nonsense,” Holmes said.

  “You ain’t got nothin’ to connect me to nothin’, just words. I ain’t afraid of no words,” Alf said, so many negatives in his sentence I wasn’t entirely sure if he was confessing or denying his part in the conspiracy to murder Haldaine.

  “Oh, but that is where you are quite wrong,” said Holmes, patiently. “You see, Alf, despite this pretence at familiarity, we do not really know one another. If we did, you would be aware that I am a consulting detective. The best in London.”

  The two eyed one another.

  “You don’t ’alf talk some tosh,” the prisoner said, shaking his head.

  Holmes continued. “You were seen with William Francis Frobisher in the Lamb and Flag, not two days ago. A witness overheard the deal being made, and money changing hands.” I hoped neither Alf nor Lestrade would ask who the witness was.

  Alf looked disconcerted at this, but bore up bravely. “Doesn’t mean nothin’. A man can say what he likes, doesn’t mean he’ll do it.”

  Holmes smiled. “Then why did you appear at the home of Mr. Haldaine with a pistol in your possession? I had a chance to examine the weapon while you were taking your leisure on the pavement, Alf. It had not been recently fired, but it had been methodically cleaned and was primed and loaded, so you had obviously taken the time to prepare for the task ahead. That says premeditation, Alf. That says intent.”

  Alf grew silent. His fingers drummed out a tattoo on the table. He did not bother to disagree with anything Holmes had said.

  “Confession is good for the soul,” Lestrade said.

  Alf’s response was both rude and anatomically challenging, and for that earned the man the back of Lestrade’s hand.

  “Did you try and kill Haldaine?” Holmes pressed. It was a simple enough question, but the semantics of it allowed the man to deflect his inquiry.

  “Try? No. You and those gutter rats stopped me. You can’t arrest a man for thinking about somethin’.”

  “Your intent then was exactly as I surmised: you were on Barton Street with one purpose.”

  “Two,” Alf contradicted.

  “Two?” Holmes asked, sounding somewhat surprised, which I rather enjoyed for the rarity of it.

  “To do as ordered and get paid. The fella who hired me said half on delivery,” Alf said, as if Holmes was a fool. It was hard not to laugh.

  “Now that we have ascertained you were there with the intention of committing murder, let us consider the man who hired you. Was it Frobisher?”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about. I ain’t got no clue who wanted the job done.”

  An incredulous Lestrade interrupted at this point. “You don’t know who hired you?”

  “That’s not how we do things. He knew where to find me, I knew he’d be good for the price, didn’t need to know nothin’ more than that.”

  “He did not give you a name?” Holmes said.

  “Would have been a fool to.”

  “But you would recognise him if you saw him again, I take it?”

  “In exchange.”

  Lestrade moved closer. “What do you want?”

  “Well, fer one, I ain’t fond of the idea of hanging,” Alf said, with a tight look in his eyes. “If I help you, I want to be sure I get off, see?”

  “Unlike murder, conspiracy to murder is not a hanging offence,” Lestrade informed him, “despite what Mr. Holmes would have you believe. But I know your sort, Alf; if I dig around enough I’m sure I’ll turn up quite the history. Most of it will be petty stuff, no doubt, but it all adds up. We could
see you in Newgate for quite a stretch. Help us and I can put in a word for you with the judge.”

  “Or you could just forget you ever saw me…”

  “Impossible,” Lestrade said. “The best I can do is to vouch for you.”

  “The inspector’s word carries some weight,” Holmes said to Alf. “No doubt it will go in your favour if he speaks up for you.”

  “But will it keep me out of Newgate?”

  “Unlikely, but I would wager that it could not hurt your defence.”

  “Alright.” Alf turned to Lestrade. “I have your word? You’ll do that? You’ll speak for me?” Lestrade nodded. “Right. So… he’s a skinny one and comes from money. Got the bearing of an officer about him, you know the sort. He weren’t at home in the Bucket of Blood. You stand him in front of me, I can tell you it’s ’im or not.”

  Holmes rose and gave Lestrade a nod. The ferret-faced detective ushered Alf out of the door, cuffs clanking, leaving us alone in the dismal room.

  “We need to bring in Frobisher and put him in front of Alf,” I said. “And that being the case, we will need a charge to level against him. It won’t work to simply lure him here.”

  “Indeed, and a charge his solicitor cannot refute,” Holmes agreed.

  “Which may be an easier thing to say than actually accomplish,” I said. “I don’t think that even the combined evidence of Alf and Wiggins will be enough to make a conspiracy charge against such a powerful man stand up in court.”

  We left the interview room and made our way upstairs to the ground floor of the police station. I immediately noticed an increased level of activity. The reception was filled with all manner of unsavoury types. Holmes glanced about, and seemed ready to leave the building, but stopped short. I followed the direction of his gaze and saw a neat man in a dark suit, who was cleaning a pair of glasses on a monogrammed handkerchief. He most certainly looked out of place among the throng of dragsmen and inebriates, an island amidst a sea of humanity.

  Before I could make further study, I heard Holmes’s name being called. Inspector Gregson emerged from behind the desk sergeant’s counter and beckoned for us to follow him.

  Gregson had a flushed, excited look on his face, which I took to mean he had had some success with our request. He very wisely did not say a word until we were secreted in the warren of cramped, tiny spaces where the inspectors had their desks. We stopped at his, tidier than most by some degree, which I took to be a reflection of both his mind and his methods. Upon it stood a tall stack of books. They appeared to be leather-bound ledgers, a uniform set, although the neat writing on the spines indicated they were from different times and places. Each bore an identical symbol—that which Harries had unwittingly confirmed denoted “classified”—just like the ones we had seen on the maps.

  “Most excellent work, Gregson,” Holmes said, a look of delight on his face. “Did you have trouble obtaining these?”

  “You might say that, Holmes. I had to make promises, offer favours, and even forgive some debts in order to get my hands on these. As it is, I would wager some of the Civil Service mandarins are unaware the documents have left the premises so you do not have a great deal of time to review them.” I had not thought about the connection until Gregson said it, but the very clerks who walked the corridors of both Houses owed their origins—and loyalty, one would hazard—to the East India Company. The notion of a permanent, unified and politically neutral administrative body was still relatively young, but for the best part of a century the Company had been schooling administrators in the Chinese manner to be at the beck and call of the government. The model was designed to eliminate corruption, but I feared, suddenly, that it had failed. Here we had officials trained by the Company, men who had risen well up the career ladder of the Service to positions of considerable influence during their years serving in Westminster. My mind raced. Who better to cover up the misdeeds of someone like William Francis Frobisher, one of the last vested shareholders of the East India Company? What price for loyalty like that? I understood, suddenly, how vital documentation could simply be made to disappear.

  Gregson carried on speaking, “Unfortunately, I cannot let you leave the station with them. But I can set you up with a room and let you examine them in private. That is the best I can do.”

  “That should suffice,” Holmes said.

  We divided the stack of ledgers between us and followed Inspector Gregson to a quiet side room. There was a worn, round table that would barely be large enough for five men to conference at, but more than enough for we two. Gregson left us to our studies, closing and locking the door, ensuring our privacy but also, in his mind at least I am sure, guaranteeing we would not be making off with the ledgers. The lock, rudimentary as it was, would have offered no great challenge to my companion should he have set his mind to picking it, I’m sure.

  “Now then, Watson, let us find out the secrets of government, shall we?” He withdrew a letter, one I previously saw in our rooms, recently delivered. Holmes withdrew a second sheet of paper, the one on which he had sketched the symbol while first looking at the East India Trading Company’s business. “Look for this, Watson. I am fascinated to find out what it is they have been so determined to keep from us.”

  “Something worth killing for,” said I, studying the mark.

  “One would assume,” Holmes agreed, and turned the first page.

  Seventeen

  Bringing Justice to Light

  One man’s tedium is another man’s glory. While I revelled in my medical studies, I completely understand how the mechanisms of the human body could bore another man to tears. I was reminded of such sympathies when I cracked open the first of the main ledgers and began reading through the neat script it contained.

  The contents were distinctly dry, being records of land sales in the Boer region of South Africa. Some were for small plots of land, barely ten acres, some for great swathes of territory. There was no obvious pattern, and at first I was sure that we had made a hideous mistake. The records were not indexed so Holmes and I were forced to sift through the volumes from beginning to end, calling out a name of a purchaser or buyer in the hope that the other would have found another record involving the same party, attempting to recreate a path of ownership in search of the telltale clue that would betray the hand holding it once and for all.

  To some actuary in some dusty office this might conceivably represent fascinating work, but for me, it was mind-numbingly tedious. I kept having to pause to refresh myself with the mark Holmes thought I should find replicated in these records. Holmes though, a voracious sponge for information, was far swifter when it came to absorbing the material and making sense out of it. Of course, he also has the amazing facility for “forgetting” the material deemed extraneous, so once this case concluded, no doubt all of this new information would simply vanish, knowing he could always research it afresh if by some miracle he was ever required to call upon it again.

  Now and then, Holmes made notations, a look of grim satisfaction on his countenance. I dared not pause and inquire. When he was ready, he would share his newfound intelligence.

  The hours ticked away. We were left to our own devices by Gregson and Lestrade, much to my relief. I was parched and my back ached, so I closed the volume before me and rose. I suggested that we take a break, but was rebuffed. He allowed that I could take my leisure, which I was tempted to do, but I did not want to appear less in his eyes, even if that is precisely what I was. I stretched, working the muscles in my shoulders slowly and thoroughly, paced three small circuits around the cramped room in three times as many strides, and then resumed my seat. I continued to read the tedious detail of land ownership in the southern regions of Africa, oblivious to what exactly was worth such secret classification thus far.

  Holmes, however, seemed increasingly animated. By this time he had spread a map across one half of the table, and was marking points on it in pencil. He also had pulled various scraps of paper from his pockets, spr
eading them beside the ledgers. Eventually my curiosity got the better of me.

  “Holmes, what are you about?”

  “Is it not obvious, Watson? You have been reading the same material as me.”

  “Perhaps so, but I confess I cannot imagine why this information is considered worthy of such secrecy. Surely the buying and selling of land is a matter of public record?”

  Holmes smiled. “Indeed, Watson, but what if someone wanted to prevent citizens such as ourselves from seeing a pattern in such mundane matters? See here—” he drew two ledgers towards him, and opened them at pages he had marked with scraps of paper “—several small landowners sold their claims to the Rotherfield Holdings Company in 1877. Nothing unusual in that, and the land was sold for very little. But see here, Rotherfield sold the combined land holdings to Messrs. Laverick and Chappell only three weeks later, who in turn sold it, together with other parcels of land bought from smaller concerns, to either Price & Cooper Incorporated or Wicks & Hook Limited. In the course of only a month, thirty small holdings were combined into two adjacent holdings.” Here he took up his pencil and circled a great area on the map in front of him. “This sort of transaction appears to have taken place dozens of times. Several hundred square miles are all now under the control of either Price & Cooper or Wicks & Hook.

  “Now, please note that against each transaction is the mark we have sought.”

  He swivelled one volume towards me and with a pencil, he stabbed at the very mark drawn on the paper in my hand. Page after page, he showed me the repeated mark.

  “What does it mean, Holmes?”

  “One of the street Arabs did me the service of seeking out the very real estate historian you suggested we needed. His return correspondence confirmed that the mark is to designate a specific family’s holdings, used in rare circumstances. Frobisher’s family is just one such that used this back when his family worked for the East India Company, similarly acquiring real estate holdings.”