by Guy Adams
“Well,” he announced, having met everyone, “I believe you want me to shoot something?”
Expressed in such innocent simplicity, the statement had the effect of quieting the whole room, something I might have thought impossible. Noting this, Carruthers was quick to address any inadvertent embarrassment he may have caused.
“Forgive me,” he said, “I appreciate I may be oversimplifying matters. But I understood that time was of the essence, and thought it best we get to the point.”
“How refreshing that someone has that attitude,” said Holmes. “I began to think I might spend all night here.”
Ignoring a positively poisonous look from Challenger, Holmes crossed the room towards the door. “Watson and I will leave you to point Mr Carruthers in the correct direction. Should he shoot anything of scientific worth don’t hesitate to inform us.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“That was rather rude,” I said once we were back outside.
“Probably,” he agreed, “but I couldn’t bear one more minute in their stifling company.”
“I did wonder how long you would manage to sit still in there before erupting.”
We crossed into Belgravia, Holmes’ heart set on an Indian restaurant that lay close by. He ignored all attempts at conversation until we had passed through its nigh-hidden doorway and were sat at one of its opulent, red tables. The smells from the kitchen were heady and sharp, my stomach fairly trembled at the hot, spicy onslaught that would soon be heading its way.
“It has been far too long since we visited here,” Holmes announced as the waiter drew close. “Have the kitchens prepare enough for three hungry men,” he said. “We’ll entrust ourselves to his choice of menu.”
The waiter bowed in acknowledgement of the order and walked away into the gloom, sidestepping his way past the usual mix of retired colonels, medical students and young gentlemen on the wrong side of sobriety.
“Three?” I asked.
“Shinwell Johnson will be meeting us here,” Holmes explained. “Given where the bodies were found, it seemed sensible to avail ourselves of his local knowledge.”
I’m sure I have mentioned Johnson before. He gave frequent assistance to Holmes after the turn of the century. Originally a criminal of mean repute—with two sentences at Parkhurst to his name—he had repented of his ways and now acted as Holmes’ agent within the criminal underworld. He wasn’t a “nark”, as the vernacular has it, and he never dealt with the police. But he often kept Holmes abreast of movements within the various criminal fraternities, allowing him to know the underbelly of the city like no other. He was an extremely likeable chap once you got beneath the battered brim of his bowler and looked past the broken nose and scarred cheeks.
“Evenin’, Gents!” he announced, arriving a few moments later. “One more for dinner?”
“I’ve ordered for you,” said Holmes gesturing to the seat furthest from the door. Johnson was always careful when meeting us in public and liked to make sure he could hide himself away in the shadows.
“Oh, I dare say there’s nothing that comes out of that kitchen that could do me a mischief,” Johnson replied. “If you’d ever seen my mother’s cooking you’d know I’m immune to poison.”
Poisonous it was not, though all three of us found ourselves loosening our collars and taking a little more of the claret than we might otherwise have done—anything to try to cool our burning tongues.
“God knows how we ever beat them,” said Johnson once he was finished eating. “I feel beaten up just by eating the food.”
“Invigorating, isn’t it?” said Holmes, taking one last mouthful of something hot and creamy that involved lamb.
“I’ll not feel the cold for a week,” Johnson agreed. “So—” he reached for his clay pipe “—I’m guessing you want to talk to me about the bodies found in Rotherhithe.”
“You guess correctly.”
“I thought it would only be a matter of time. In fact, I had half a mind to head over to you myself. I know the papers have been full of rubbish about it being gang violence but, I thought, my Mr Holmes ain’t stupid enough to fall for that.”
I couldn’t help but smile at the uncomfortable look that passed across Holmes’ face.
“I confess my attention was elsewhere when the news was first released,” he said, “and I didn’t give it the attention it clearly deserved.”
“You and the rest of London,” said Johnson. He smiled, and his good humour was so soft and genuine it transformed his face. “You’ve got a better excuse than most though,” he continued. “One man can only keep his eye on so much after all.” He took another mouthful of his drink and lit his pipe. “Probably best if I give you the lot then,” he said, “belt and braces, just the way you like it.”
CHAPTER SIX
“The first body,” Johnson continued, “weren’t nothing really. Or so it seemed at the time. You know what it’s like—sometimes the patterns are only clear once you can step back and take them all in. Up close they’re just a bloody mess. The body was certainly that—more meat than skin, waterlogged and ragged, as frilly as a girl’s petticoat. It were found at the docks, bobbing in the water like a kiddie’s boat.
“It caused a bit of fuss for a few minutes as people gathered round to watch it get fished out. Then the law turned up, dumped it in a sack and people got back to work. Most folk assumed someone had just fallen in and then been given a going over by one of the boat propellers. It happens from time to time. Besides, it don’t take long for anything to turn nasty in the Thames. That water’s more alive than most of the folk what live along it if you ask me. Full of disease, rats, and fish what would have your hand off soon as look at you. It’s a merciless stretch of water. Once you’re in it, it don’t like to ever let you go.
“Anyway, the law took the body off and nobody thought any more about it until the next came along.
“It looked as bad as the first but you could tell this one were different. Its hands and feet were chained, for one thing. This wasn’t just some drunk who’d stumbled off the jetty, this was someone who had been thrown in.
“People started gossiping then right enough. Was he washed up from a prison ship, they said. Like they were still shipping folk off to Australia or something. Prison ship … I asks you. If there’s one thing that will always surprise me, Gentlemen, it’s how ruddy thick people can be. If he were a prisoner he must have escaped. Though how he’d have got far, what with the chains, is another question.
“I made it my business to ask around about those chains, Gentlemen, and one thing I can say with some certainty is that they were not prison issue. If there’s one thing you can be fairly sure of in that part of the city it’s that a good few of its residents know only too well what prison chains look like. So … whoever chained him up did so for reasons other than the law.
“That decided, I made it my business to find out a little more about body number two.
“It was discovered by a bunch of kids. Bless you, Doctor, but you pull a face like that as if the kids round those parts ain’t never seen a dead body before. I tell you, my main worry was what the little buggers might have done to it before the police put it under lock and key, I wouldn’t trust the sods around there not to sell a few chunks as pie meat! Merciless, they are.
“I paid a visit to a copper friend of mine—I know, I know, there aren’t many but he’s a decent enough bloke and I’ve always had time for him just as he’s always had time for me. He told me as much as he could find out, which weren’t much. The body had been dead before it hit the water—the police surgeon could tell that much. He could also tell that the body had been beaten up before being fed to whatever mad zoo of sharp-toothed buggers it had been. There were distinctive bruise marks that suggested he’d been clubbed. He was still alive when the animals had him though as his hands were fair in pieces, him having raised them to try and fend the monsters off.
“The police surgeon had spent a fair amount of time in
India and was sure that he recognised some of the wounds as matching those you’d expect if the bloke had come off on the wrong end of a fight with a tiger. Which is strange, I grant you, but you get all sorts of animals in that neck of the woods, what with the ships and the import businesses. He also identified a number of puncture wounds that he insists are the work of a snake. Again, you get all manner of slithery bastards sneaking free around the docks, though the chill usually kills them off pretty damn quick. I remember, when I were a kid, me old pa bringing home a fat python he’d found. Tasted just like chicken.
“Anyway, all this added up to a pretty rum way of getting dead. Their first assumption—and I have to say it was mine too—was that the victim had broken into one of the less reputable animal exporters. You know what they’re like down there. If it ain’t animals for toffs, or experiments for those gentlemen of science who haven’t the paperwork to get things done right, then it’s the Chinks and their medicines. Not that I’ve got anything against that. I don’t see how a tiger’s diddly in soup can add years to me life but I’ll eat anything once—twice if I like it.
“So I reckoned it was worth asking around to see what was what in that line of trade. And I tell you, they’re all as crooked as my gran when the gin money was in. Still, accounting for the fact that I wouldn’t trust none of ’em to look after a Jack Russell, let alone a lion, there seems to be two that are particularly known for that perfect combination of scale and corruption—they’re big business and they’re run so far on the wrong side of the law they’re coming back to meet it. So, if it comes down to an animal dealer being involved I’ll stake my reputation on it being one or the other.
“The first is a sour old Eyetie goes by the name of Mario—don’t they all? His main business is private homes—finding that special something for the Lord and Lady what has everything. Though why you’d ever want a rhino in your backyard I don’t rightly know, but the story is he’s sold two: one to a nob in Bath the other to a mad Scotchman. How the Hell he shipped ’em in then got them to the client without anyone cottoning on, I don’t know. But there you are, he’s good at his game, and that’s a fact. He also supplies nasty stuff to those silly sods who get a kick out of that sort of thing. You know the sort, Mr Holmes. Jumped up little gangsters what haven’t the muscle to scare people without getting all theatrical. End up keeping a cellar full of hyenas or a fish tank full of sharks just to scare the locals. In my day we just used to break your ruddy fingers not shove a rare viper down your trousers. I blame the music hall—gives people a taste for showing off. He might be your man—if there’s even a connection—but my money’s on number two.
“Number two’s a Taff, goes by the name of Thomas—don’t they all? Does a lot of his business with the scalpel brigade, which is why I think he’s your man. Most of his animals are nothing but pelt and a bucket full of lights before he’s finished counting his money. Doctors buy ’em. Scientists buy ’em. Anyone who fancies seeing what the poor things look like on the inside buys ’em. Can’t pretend to understand why. Doctor cutting up a cadaver’s one thing—I can see how he needs to learn his way around. Still, you can plot your way from a badger’s arse to his top set but it ain’t going to help me when I’m on the operating table, is it?
“So, those are your likely suspects if you want to go down that route. Though I have to say that neither are the sort that would draw attention to themselves by dumping the bodies elsewhere. I mean, if you’ve got a leopard in the cellar then you’ve no worries getting rid of a dead body have you? It’ll be nothing but chewed bones within minutes. Still, rare animals come into play somehow, so I’ve given you the gen.
“Body three—now that turned up not two days ago. The main difference there is he weren’t floating down the river, he was found in a small pile of himself dumped in the corner of the Bucket of Lies. That’s not the pub’s real name of course, it’s the Bouquet of Lilies but as most of the people what drink there can’t read, especially on their way out, the name sort of shifted. Suits it better and all, the only time you’d catch a whiff of lilies there is if one of the regulars had been grave-robbing.
“The body was found by a blind man what picked it up thinking it was his own belongings! You shouldn’t laugh but there you go, there’s not much to put a smile on your face in that part of the city. So you takes your chuckles, as black as they may be, wherever you find ’em. He only realised his mistake when he felt his back getting wet. There weren’t much blood left in the body, not with the chunks it had missing, but what there was soon dripped through the sacking and his shirt. He fair terrified the residents of the Bucket of Lies when he walked back in and asked, ‘Which one of you gits spilled beer in my bag, then?’—upturning the sack so all the contents were spilling over the bar. He was furious when somebody finally explained what it was he’d been carrying around, not because he was squeamish—he were an old veteran from what I understand, and it takes a lot to get a soldier’s lip to tremble as well you know, Dr Watson. Nah, he was kicking up a fuss because he’d gone from wet belongings to no belongings at all. They never did find his sack, poor sod.
“Now, as you two know, by the time you get to three bodies, people really start to take an interest. Not just the police, I’m talking about the papers. There’s nothing sells the gossip sheets better than a bit of spilled blood. Let’s be honest—if they could use that instead of ink they would. They’re a savage bunch, journalists, and no mistake.
“So before the stains on the bar at the Bucket of Lies have so much as dried, people who have never been within spitting distance of the place are talking about it. The gossip starts, the theories, the lies, the stories getting bigger with each retelling. It’s the sort of thing that drives any self-respecting copper off his nut—if there is such a thing as a self-respecting copper, and it takes all sorts so I suppose there must be. How can you conduct a decent investigation once the gossip kicks off, eh? Everyone’s got a story to tell and half of them have made it up.
“So, before you know it, the main thing becomes a need to make the story shrivel up and go away. It’ll happen in time anyway—the public are never interested in anything for long. But if the whole lot can be written off as quickly as possible nobody need panic, and our city’s police force can get back to looking like they know what they’re doing. Besides, it’s not as if anyone important died now is it? Dropping like flies down there anyway, ain’t they—nothing so disposable as the working classes. So everyone starts talking about gangs fighting amongst themselves, and the newspapermen yawn and move on to something more interesting.
“But it ain’t the gangs, Mr Holmes, none that I know of anyway, and I keep my ear to the ground as you know, so there’s not much that gets past me on that score. We’ve had two new faces over the last few months, an Irishman who seems to have a political axe to grind more than an urge to make any real money, and an enigmatic sort by the name of Kane who keeps himself to himself. Haven’t so much as clapped eyes on him but he’s got some clout and has won a few boys over. I can’t see either of them having anything to do with this though, can you? This sort of thing’s no use unless people know who done it. A gang don’t top a bloke in such an over-the-top way unless they’re making a point, and if they’re making a point they open their gobs about it, stands to reason. Nah, this ain’t nothing to do with the gangs and I’d stake my reputation on it. Which in fact, I just have.
“Whatever’s going on here—and I have no doubt that if anyone can get to the bottom of it, I’m talking to him, Mr Holmes—then it’s a lot darker and nowhere near as simple as bloody ‘gang violence’.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
If I hadn’t felt full after my meal, I certainly did after Johnson’s talk. He had a way of speaking that assaulted both the ears and brain. God knows how Holmes, a man who saw the strict delineation of facts as perfection itself, managed to filter what he needed out of it. Nonetheless he always seemed to manage.
“Plenty to be going on with there, I
think,” he said. “I may well call on you again. This strikes me as a case where local knowledge —or perhaps just a strong right fist—will be frequently needed.”
“I’m here whenever you need me, Mr Holmes,” Johnson replied. “You know that.”
Holmes paid for our meal and announced that a short walk would do us both good.
“We must decide our next step, Watson,” he said. “And the cold air will energise us to do just that.”
Shinwell Johnson left us the minute we had stepped out of the restaurant, slipping away almost mid-sentence to return to the world he knew so well but which was alien to us. As we walked the streets of Belgravia, Holmes was mostly silent, digesting the facts of the case as well as our meal. Every now and then he would tap out a rhythm on the pavement slabs with his cane, or stop to stare in the window of a shop, the very figure of a relaxed man about town. I knew he was cogitating furiously beneath the surface, however—a swan with urgent, pedalling feet.
“There is nothing to be gained by observing from afar,” he announced after a while, gazing up at the hazy sky above us. “We must make an expedition into enemy territory.”
“A trip to Rotherhithe?”
“Certainly.” He smiled and looked at me. “Will you come?”
“It makes a change for you to ask.” Usually it was all I could do to find out where it was he vanished to in the small hours, leaping— so very unnecessarily—from his bedroom window leaving nothing but the trace of old tobacco and thickly applied spirit gum.
