The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part X

by Marcum, David;

  “Ah gentlemen, good evening. I just happened to be looking out the window, and there you were coming along the street. It is nice to see you again. Inspector Lestrade has gone, I’m afraid.”

  “We’re not looking for the inspector,” said Holmes.

  Mrs. Henslow laughed nervously. “Well, you can’t be looking for me.”

  “Perhaps we are.”

  She pulled her black shawl tighter around her shoulders and reluctantly stepped back into the hallway. A door at its end stood open, presumably leading to the rooms she herself occupied. I thought she would ask us in, but she now drew herself up with an almost military bearing.

  “What can I do for you, gentlemen?” Her voice had regained the stentorian quality I had noticed earlier.

  “Your tenant, Mr. O’Malley,” said Holmes. “How long have you known that he was a crook?”

  The woman startled at the brusqueness of Holmes’s question, but at the same time I thought I saw an expression of relief cross her face.

  “What nonsense! Mr. O’Malley is elderly, as you well know.”

  “I must ask you to listen carefully, Mrs. Henslow. I did not say Mr. O’Malley is a crook, I said he was a crook. And I will tell you how you found out.”

  “I’m listening, Mr. Holmes.”

  “You bring your tenants their breakfast, and at one time, or maybe more often, Mr. O’Malley had forgotten to cover his firemark. But he always covered it before going outside. He is not unduly given to the sin of vanity, and thus you started reflecting on the reason for this behaviour. The conclusion was obvious. He did not want to be recognised. Why? Again, the conclusion was obvious. Perhaps you did some research, and you soon confirmed your suspicion.”

  “And what if it were so?” Mrs. Henslow tilted her head back. “Should I have played the informer? Ours is a merciful God, Mr. Holmes. They are papists, it is true, but I hold out hope that I will see them onto the path of our Lord. It is not too late for them both.”

  “What if I told you that Mr. O’Malley recently fell into his old ways?”

  An expression of consternation formed on her face.

  “How about we talk with him?” asked Holmes.

  Mrs. Henslow stepped aside and made an inviting gesture towards her rooms. Then, however, she took the lead and marched ahead of us.

  “These gentlemen here would like a word with Daniel,” she said, crossing the threshold.

  We entered directly into a large kitchen that also served as a dining room. Mrs. and Mr. O’Malley were sitting on straight-backed chairs at a table, cups of tea and a plate of bread in front of them. The gas light cast an orange penumbra over everything. To the right, the room gave onto what appeared to be a garden, to the left lay the living room in darkness. A cross hung by a fireplace. I discerned chintz-covered chairs and a cabinet with some knick-knacks on the shelves. A stretch of Morton Road was visible through the window.

  Mr. O’Malley nodded to us. “Pleased ter see yer again, gentlemen.”

  His firemark sat like a bloodstain on his cheek.

  Both Holmes and I remained silent. O’Malley wound his hands around his cup and looked at Mrs. Henslow, who had taken up station by a sideboard. The landlady’s features were a study in impassivity.

  O’Malley’s by contrast were working as if a host of worms were squirming under his skin. Finally, he looked Holmes in the eye. “It’s naw use, Oi guess. Oi heard yer out dare. Yer right, Mr. Holmes. Oi’m an auld jailbird, one that flew de coop. Filed me way through the bars, den down de drainpipes an’ into the sewer. A gran’ mess Oi wus. It was spillin’ rain dat night it wus, and they mighta thought I drowned like a rat an’ spilled out into de river. Spilled out Oi did alright, but auld Daniel O’Malley swims like a cod. And so Oi got away. Lived an ’onest life since den, more or less.”

  He looked to his wife and she nodded. “We should’ve gone away, Bridget an’ me, but we didn’t. Stupid, but London is wha yer can make a livin’. I did me best ter disguise meself, and it’s worked for years. Thought age had solved de problem, but Oi couldn’t get rid of dis.” He jabbed a forefinger at his firemark. “And Oi’m not as careful as Oi used ter be. Oi don’t put dis on first thing when Oi swing me legs outa bed.” Reaching into the pocket of his cardigan, he extracted a flat metal box. He opened it and pulled out what looked like a thin flap of impregnated fabric. He flicked open a compartment within the box and revealed some grease. With a practiced motion he smeared some onto one side of the flap and pressed it to his face. A few careful touches with his fingertips followed, and when he removed his hand the firemark had disappeared and his skin looked like that of any old man. He cackled. “Before Oi met Bridget, Oi knew a lassie on de stage. Taught me a few things she did, not only dis. But ter get on with me story. One mornin’ Mrs. Henslow saw me without me patch. Oi could tell dare and den dat somethin’ had started in ’er mind. I tol’ Bridget we oughta leave, but we cudn’t, now cud we...?”

  “You had given your word to the Ahernes that you would watch over their son.”

  “Yer a clever fella, Mr. Holmes. His father and me, we wus lads together back in Limerick. Dat telegram Oi sent him this mornin’ was de ’ardest one Oi ever sent. Yer man was like me older brother, till the whole family up and lef’ for America. He did come over here ter London three, four times in later years. Me and himself did some business together. And when Chester came over, he asked me ter keep an eye on’im. We were just sellin’ our place in Spitalfields, so it worked out dandy. Oi liked Chester. A gran’ lad he was. Though he didn’t have ’is father’s...” Here he clenched his fist and made a grunting sound.

  “What did you tell his father over the past months?”

  “Told ’im de truth, Oi did, dat Chester wus wastin’ ’is time mixin’ chemicals instead of goin’ ter work, and dat he wus gallivantin’ out late at night. Never mentioned dat lassie of his though. Dat wus no one’s business. But I did say he seemed ter ’ave a problem o’ sorts.”

  “Of what sorts?”

  “Of wantin’ ter be like you!”

  Holmes contemplated his shoes. “Did you tell him that Chester was injecting cocaine?”

  “Oi didn’t know till dis mornin’, Oi didn’t! Oi swear! Mrs. Henslow tol’ me how she found’ im. Oi...”

  Holmes silenced O’Malley with an impatient cutting motion. “Do you know what you were stealing in the pharmacy, Mr. O’Malley?”

  All blood left the old cracksman’s face. His eyes flickered, looked to Mrs. Henslow, to his wife, and then back to Holmes.

  “Please, Oi didn’t even...”

  “Do you know what you were stealing?!”

  There came no response.

  “You were stealing a murder weapon.”

  I saw puzzlement and comprehension struggle in O’Malley’s eyes as his mind raced back over his memories, and they took on a new complexion.

  “A few days ago,” Holmes continued, “Jacob Henslow informed you that he knew of your past. His mother must have mentioned it.” The lady in question silently raised her chin. “He’s a charming individual, but I’m sure he can put some fear into his interlocutor. Not exactly the fear of God, but something similar. But he didn’t ask much in exchange for keeping quiet, merely that you put your old skills to use and break into a pharmacy...”

  “Me an’ himself went together dat night! Oi didn’t even go in! Just fixed de door, Oi did, an’ kept a lookout. Yer man took me lantern an’ wus in dare and out again in foive minutes. Oi didn’t even know what he stole...”

  Holmes motioned to the four tea cups on the table. “It would appear we just missed him. Or rather, Mrs. Henslow delayed us long enough for him to escape.”

  The landlady’s eyes were pinned to Holmes with an expression that most reserve for loathsome insects.

  “What gives you the right to cast
aspersions on my son?” she now hissed. “In my own house.” Her arm shot out to indicate the door by which we had entered. “Leave! I demand that you leave.”

  “What gives me the right, Mrs. Henslow? Reason gives me the right...”

  At this moment, we all noticed that Mr. O’Malley was looking towards the backdoor that gave onto the garden.

  “Dare,” he said quietly. “He left through dare...”

  A shriek of rage issued from the landlady as she attempted to throw herself on O’Malley, but his wife, with surprising agility, jumped up and pushed Mrs. Henslow back against the wall.

  “Leave him alone, you hag!”

  Holmes had gripped O’Malley by his cardigan and was pulling him in the direction of the backdoor.

  “Come, Watson. Enough time wasted. I’ll never forgive myself if we’re too late.”

  Holmes yanked open the door and pushed the old cracksman outside.

  “Oi don’t know wha’ he went,” protested O’Malley.

  “I do,” said Holmes. “What I don’t know is the address. You followed Aherne around, though.”

  We hurried through the garden and into an alley that ran parallel to Morton Road, then rushed towards the main thoroughfare.

  “You don’t happen to have your old service revolver on you, Watson, do you?” Holmes called.

  “Afraid not.”

  We were in luck. As we reached the thoroughfare, some gentlemen were alighting from a growler. Holmes pushed O’Malley to the fore.

  “The girl’s address!”

  “Oi, Oi, let me tink...” He pressed his fingertips to his forehead and took a deep breath. Then he blurted out an address in Lambeth.

  “Hurry,” said Holmes to the driver as we all climbed aboard. I remember casting a look at the nag in harness and my heart sinking. A crack of the whip rang out, and we were on our way.

  * * *

  The nag, however, proved only partly to blame for the slow progress that followed. Another reason was the traffic. Every year this seems to worsen; by now it all but comes to a standstill in the evenings. With every expansion of the Tube, London is promised that this marvel will alleviate the situation. I cannot say that I have ever noticed any improvement.

  Fran’s face was before my mental eye as we moved towards the river in fits and starts, occasional yells by our driver testifying to his frustration with the other occupants of the road. She would surely have gone home after the morning’s ordeal. Most of us require solitude when we are bereaved, to gather ourselves before we again face an indifferent world.

  “Last night Oi ’ad ter git up,” said O’Malley, who was sitting next to me and across from Holmes. “Needed ter git meself a glass o’ water. Oi went into de kitchen, and while Oi’m dare drinkin’ me water, Oi hear someone goin’ down de stairs, quiet like. Thought it wus Chester, but Oi also thought it wus a wee bit strange, ’cause Oi’d met ’im earlier in de evenin’ whaen he came home, and he says ter me he wants ter work in his laboratory, he says.”

  “You heard Henslow,” replied Holmes. “He was checking on his handiwork.”

  O’Malley pushed his hand through his hair. “Oi still don’t understand...”

  “It is quite simple. After you had picked the lock, Henslow stole a quantity of twenty-percent solution of cocaine. He has keys to all the rooms, so when Aherne was out, Henslow poured away Aherne’s seven-percent solution and replaced it with the twenty-percent solution. When Aherne administered this to himself, his heart failed, as the drug was almost three times the strength to which his system was accustomed.”

  The old cracksman was shaking his head. “Oi thought he wus stealin’ something for ’imself...”

  The remainder of the ride passed in agonised silence. I do not know how often I looked out of the window, which always seemed to reveal a melee of vehicles and pedestrians. We crawled across Westminster Bridge amidst a hullaballoo of cries and whip cracks, and suddenly, as we reached the south side, began to gather speed.

  “We’re nearly dare,” announced O’Malley after a short while.

  Sure enough, a minute later our cab came to a halt in a lane off St. George’s Road and we all jumped out.

  “Dare.” O’Malley pointed at a run-down tenement building. “That’s wha’ Chester went in. But Oi don’t know whaich floor.”

  “The garret,” I said.

  Holmes was already bounding towards the front door. I pressed a half-sovereign into the driver’s hand. By the time I entered the house, Holmes had disappeared around a bend in the staircase. I could not hear his steps and made sure to be as quiet as possible myself. This was not easy as the stairs were worn, steep, and prone to squeaking.

  By the time I had made my way up four flights, my heart was pounding. All was silence. Gingerly, I moved up the next flight. I had reached the top floor and saw to my left an even narrower set of stairs continuing upward to the garret. Only the weak light that always seems to emanate from the city came through a small roof window. I tiptoed onward, rounded a bend in the staircase, and Holmes was staring me in the face.

  “No time to lose,” he whispered.

  There were three doors in the garret, all made of rough wood, all closed. I could barely stand upright without grazing the beams, but Holmes had to stoop. He motioned to the door on the left. A sliver of light issued from beneath it. I leaned forward and could now hear someone pacing and a murmur of voices, but could not make out any words.

  I put my eye to the keyhole, but the key was in the lock. Holmes lifted his index finger. We had only one chance. Then he made a motion of putting his shoulder to the door. I looked at it again. It appeared old, but sturdy. What awaited us on the other side? Fran in the hands of that madman? What if we failed to break through? I thought of the girl’s sorrowful features, and of the determination with which she had pulled herself together.

  We retreated a few steps to the other end of the landing. Holmes looked at me and then nodded. We rushed forward and crashed our shoulders against the door. The wood split and the upper half burst out of the frame, but the lock held.

  “Again!” shouted Holmes, pulling me back.

  We rushed forward again and slammed all our weight against the door. This time it fell inward, and we stumbled into Fran’s garret room, just as Jacob Henslow was helping her to escape through the window.

  His face, as he turned, was strangely empty, pale and expressionless like a Venetian mask. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw - rarest of occurrences - an expression of surprise take shape on Holmes’s features. Yet it vanished in an instant and was replaced by one of resolve, as Henslow reached into his trouser pocket. His hand emerged holding a black cylinder. There came a snapping sound and a blade shot out. This was the blade, I understood, that had grazed the neck of Madame Rose’s patron and cut the throat of Rupert the German Shepherd. None of this, however, was now of any importance. Henslow came charging towards us. Holmes and I, both of us still off balance, stumbled backwards. The next moment it was Henslow who was stumbling backwards, a cry of dismay issuing from between his teeth. The knife clattered to the floor. Holmes had flung the bottle of cocaine solution and hit our attacker on the forehead.

  I rushed forward, determined to capitalise on our advantage, and received a kick against the upper thigh for my recklessness. Fran had turned around in the window, lowered herself onto a dresser, and jumped from there to the floor. As I fell to the side, Henslow dealt me a blow against the ear that sent me head first into the metal frame of a bed in the centre of the room. For a second or two, I was dazed. When I turned, I saw Holmes and Henslow locked in a struggle over who would reach the knife that had slipped under a wash basin. Neither of them would. Fran was stepping over them and would momentarily have the object in her possession. Holmes reached out and grasped her ankle, whereupon she stumbled. In the instant, however, he
released his double-handed grip on Henslow, the young man wrenched himself free and struggled to his feet. Meanwhile, Fran had reached the knife. She spun around, brandishing it, her eyes full of hatred.

  “Leave us be!” she screeched.

  Henslow grasped her by the wrist and they were rushing for the door.

  Perhaps I should have let them escape; they would not have got far. But in the heat of the moment not every man’s mental faculties are a good judge as to the best course of action. Fran had stepped past the wreckage of the door and Henslow was right behind her when I reached him. This time I ducked his blow and rammed my head into his torso. A rickety balustrade separated the landing from the stairwell, and as his weight crashed against the wood, it splintered. There followed a thud that almost rendered inaudible a simultaneous cracking sound.

  The knife in Fran’s hand glimmered in the dark, oddly foreshortened in the perspective as she raised her arm to bring the weapon down upon me. And then the knife froze in midair, swayed left and right, and fell to the landing.

  “It’s naw use, lassie,” said O’Malley as he pinned her arm behind her back. “De peelers are on their way.”

  She groaned, but did not say a word.

  “Redemption becomes you, O’Malley,” said Holmes, emerging from the room.

  Indeed, the police arrived only minutes later as we were walking the young woman down the stairs. For the second time that day she came into proximity with a dead man. This time I saw a shiver pass through her frame, and I believe her knees shook, but that was all. She straightened her back and stepped past the twisted body.

  * * *

  The wind cut into our faces as Holmes and I made our way back to Baker Street. My hands felt clammy in my coat pockets and there was a throbbing sensation behind my forehead. I longed to lie down and let the world sink away.

  “Quite an impressive showing back there, Watson,” Holmes suddenly ventured.

  I nodded. Indeed, I myself had been reflecting on the precipitate nature of my actions.