The Sign of Fear

by Robert Ryan

  At intervals, probably not even aware she was doing it, she fingered the wedding ring hidden at her throat on a chain beneath the severe black uniform. Another story there, one of millions in this blighted city. A dead husband, perhaps, killed in the trenches, his loss forcing her out into the workplace to provide for the children. Watson examined her rather sallow face for signs of bereavement. There were none he could discern, just a ripple of nervous energy.

  The trouble was, he thought, that he himself had never really grieved. He wasn’t sure how to. Of course he had been struck by the death of Mary. It had been like a blow with a hammer. The same with Emily, when she perished in the air crash. But he had done what any man of his generation would have done. He had buttoned his waistcoat a little tighter and carried on. The advantage back then was that there has been something to carry on with, something men the world over would envy. There had been Holmes.

  And from this distance, he wondered how often Holmes had called upon him to rouse him from his miserable torpor in the wake of the deaths of his wives. The thought made him smile. He had tried the very same technique whenever Holmes reached for those damnable drugs. Give him mental stimulation, he had cried to himself. But Holmes had always seen the attempts for what they were. Distractions. For his part, however, when Holmes came calling he had never suspected an ulterior motive. Perhaps there hadn’t been. It didn’t do to suggest sentimentality was part of Holmes’s make up.

  There was no sentimentality. You were needed. And you dropped everything like the friend and companion you are, and my time on this earth has been the better for it.

  Watson hoped that was true, not just another false emollient from the ever-unreliable voice in his head. He took a sip of brandy, allowing himself to sink further into the couch, to let the knotted tensions in his body unwind for a few moments.

  Georgina.

  He felt a strange weightlessness; as if the brandy were the hydrogen they pump into the Zeppelins, lifting him off the plump red cushions and the couch, his feet dangling in thin air.

  I never got to say goodbye.

  Watson recalled shouting the phrase at Mycroft when he was in the nursing home, recovering after the ordeal at Krok. Mycroft who, although sympathetic, was not equipped by nature to comprehend the significance of that lost moment on a bleak bridge in Holland, when the accursed Miss Pillbody, the German undercover spy, had shot the blameless Georgina Gregson in cold blood. To him, Georgina would already have been beyond goodbyes, an empty husk. But Watson would have given anything to cradle her for those last few seconds and beyond, letting her warmth, and perhaps her spirit, flow into him. But it wasn’t to be.

  And so that dose of grief, Georgina’s, had joined the others inside, not set free or purged but tamped down like the powder in a muzzle loader. Hammered into a dense, explosive ball of sorrow somewhere in his soul. And one day it would detonate, taking his reason with it.

  But not now.

  Gravity reasserted itself and he felt the fullness of the overstuffed cushions pressing against him as he sank back into the couch. His limbs felt as if they had been filled with lead shot, suddenly bovine and lumpen.

  No, not now. Not while there is Sir Gilbert and Nurse Jennings or even John Crantock, the resurrected nightwatchman.

  ‘Can I get you anything else, sir? More coffee, perhaps? A sandwich?’

  It was the waitress. The accent wasn’t London or particularly refined, although she was trying hard to plump the vowels. He eyed the empty brandy glass, the taste on him. Instead he said: ‘Your husband serves?’

  She touched the hidden ring, her long fingers twitchy, unable to alight for long. ‘Sherwood Foresters.’

  ‘Ah, I know them. Knew some of them, at least. Good chaps.’ Although how many of the ‘good chaps’ he had met in Egypt while conducting blood-transfusion trials were still alive? ‘And he is safe?’

  She nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, thank you, sir. He’s a farrier, you see.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘So he’s mostly behind the front. Still doing his bit, though.’

  ‘Yes, still doing his bit,’ he reassured her, cross with himself for being somewhat taken aback that a farrier’s wife could find a position at the Langham. Times were topsy-turvy indeed. But it explained the flat vowels.

  She patted the wedding ring again. ‘Some places don’t like to see married women working, as I am sure you know, sir. Mr Colt isn’t like that. But I worried about Sid so much in the early days, I’m not the same lass who walked down the aisle. Not as bonny, I mean. So it falls off now if I wear it. The ring. And most customers don’t like finding a wedding band at the bottom of their cup.’ A flicker of a smile played around her mouth but, frightened she had shared too much, she added hurriedly: ‘So, another coffee, sir?’

  But they both looked at the brandy glass. ‘No, thank you.’ After examining his pockets for coins, he handed over a ten-shilling note.

  Nightwatchman where, Watson? Do you remember that? asked the voice in his head when she had left to fetch his change. Where was Crantock a nightwatchman?

  The phantom was up to his old tricks, trying to tempt him to engage with the world and its mysteries. It was a fair point, though. St Luke’s, he seemed to recall the widow had said, the place that gave the world the term ‘batty’, after the asylum’s chief physician, William Battie. Was that right? Ah well, no doubt Porky would tell him in the fullness of time.

  It was time to go home. It was time to sleep.

  Autumn was in the air as Watson zigzagged through to Wimpole Street. There was the scent of wet earth, fallen leaves and mulch on the breeze, which was coming from the south. Would autumn save the city from the bombers? The sky was a cobalt blue now, clouds few and far between. The Germans had managed a raid in terrible conditions the previous night. What would they send over when the skies were horribly clear and the stars shone a crystalline light down on London?

  He thought of autumn in the trenches and the winter not far behind. The smell of no man’s land stung his nostrils, as it did whenever he pictured the men trudging through icy water and mud, of the cold that gnawed at the bones, the clouds of corrosive gas rolling over the wire and the stench of putrefaction. Of the bodies that lay beneath that mud. Some of them his doing.

  And autumn this year meant even stricter coal rationing. From October, all households had to register with a coal merchant to ensure they used only the regulation amount to heat their homes. It might be another cold, hard winter for most people in this city, perhaps even harder than 1916, and that had been bad enough. There was less food to go around now, and even in this affluent part of town there were queues at the food shops, although admittedly more often comprised of servants than the lady of the house.

  He kicked at a pile of leaves in the gutter of Harley Street, as brittle as ancient paper, and the toe of his boot caught something hard and metal. He bent down, extracted it from its covering, and examined it. It was a fragment of a German bomb, a pyramid of brass, pitted and scarred, with, at the apex, a hexagonal nut. There was a number on it: ‘49’. It was the business end of some infernal device.

  Watson placed it under his arm and continued his walk to Wimpole Street, pausing only to watch a small convoy of slab-sided Pierce-Arrow armoured cars, each with a Vickers naval gun mounted on the rear, trundling towards the park, doubtless to join the anti-aircraft batteries that had been deployed around the Inner Circle.

  When he reached his lodgings, Mrs Turner opened the door before he could use his key. Her face showed intense displeasure. ‘You have a visitor. And he ordered me to fetch today’s newspapers!’

  Porky, Watson reckoned. His type would certainly offend Mrs Turner. ‘Is it a Mr Johnson?’

  ‘No, it is not,’ she said through pursed lips. ‘It’s a Mr Holmes. And he ordered me to fetch every single one of the morning newspapers. Every one,’ she repeated, as if he had requested a fan dance. ‘Then some scissors and card and glue. Who does he think he is?’


  ‘He thinks he is Mycroft Holmes,’ he said, sliding by Mrs Turner. ‘Once one of the most important men in England. And I am afraid I have been pestering him somewhat. But he might have important news for me about a friend who is missing.’

  Watson bounded up the stairs, his weariness and the promise of sleep forgotten, and burst into the living room. As he took in those long, crossed legs, the brilliantly polished Balmorals at the end of them, the piercing grey eyes, the slightly raised, almost sardonic, eyebrow and the cheekbones you could still slice ham on, he realized it wasn’t Mycroft at all. Watson couldn’t help himself, he simply blurted out the name.

  ‘Sherlock!’

  NINETEEN

  Schrader was still snoozing when he heard the banging on the door of his billet. Bleary-eyed from too much beer and schnapps, he reached over to the bedside table for his wristwatch. It was just gone seven. And he had gone to bed at . . . about half-past, pissed, as he recalled.

  ‘Just a minute.’

  He still had on his breeches and singlet, so he pulled last night’s shirt on and shuffled to the door. When he opened it, Trotzman was standing there, all sharp creases and bushy tail. He looked Schrader up and down with an expression that suggested he’d just swallowed a bottle of Bayer’s Liquorice Expectorant.

  ‘You carried on then? I did warn you.’

  ‘Oh, do fuck off,’ said Schrader.

  ‘And the girl?’

  Schrader gave a wolfish grin and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Yes, and the girl. Worth every pfennig.’ In truth, he couldn’t remember much, just a blur of pale limbs and red lips, a sweaty, woozy coupling, a touch of over-acting at the pleasuring, and a much-rumpled bed. What was her name again?

  ‘I bet you don’t even remember her name.’

  ‘Fifi.’

  Trotzman barged past him and Schrader closed the door. ‘Aren’t they all called Fifi in that place?’ The weatherman looked around the room. Apart from the thrown-back sheets, it was immaculately kept. He walked over and lifted up the book that had been left open on the desk: The Confusion of Young Törless, a daring racy bestseller, so he had heard. He put it back down. He preferred the elegance of weather charts to dense text.

  ‘You have coffee?’ Trotzman asked.

  ‘I can ring for some. Madame will bring it up.’

  ‘Another Fifi of yours? Breakfast in bed?’

  He thought of the ruddy-faced Flemish woman who owned the café below and her ham-hock arms. ‘You could make three Fifis out of this one. And don’t speak to your superiors like that.’

  ‘Or what, you’ll find yourself a better weatherman? Good luck with that.’

  Schrader pulled the bell rope twice, the agreed morning signal for a pot of coffee and a jug of warm water. ‘What are you doing here so early?’ he asked Trotzman, although in truth it was not early by air force standards. Just by hangover ones.

  ‘Two new Giants are due in today. Von Kahr wants you and he to take up one apiece and then inspect them for any faults, like that cracked spar you found.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I think I’ll do it the other way around. Inspect first, then fly. Then inspect again. That way I won’t get any nasty surprises at five thousand metres.’

  Trotzman shrugged. ‘You’re the airman.’

  Schrader crossed to the window, yanked back the curtains and peered upwards. ‘How is the weather?’

  ‘The same, at the moment. But the wind has shifted. It’s from the south. Fine in southern England, so I hear. And the cloud seems to be breaking up over France and the Channel. And it’s a full moon over London from tomorrow. A harvest moon.’

  ‘So we fly tomorrow?’

  ‘That’s not all. You fly with a little surprise.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The Elektrons are also arriving today from Duisburg.’

  There was a sharp rap at the door, but Schrader ignored it. He couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice. The Elektron bomb had been rumoured for months now. ‘The new incendiaries?’

  Trotzman dropped to a whisper. ‘The very same. With a less than ten per cent failure rate. If God grants us clear skies and a bright moon for just three or four nights . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  Trotzman’s eyes shone. Schrader knew what he was going to say, but wanted to hear it all the same. ‘Then, my dear Oberleutnant, London will burn.’

  When the men in the gas masks wheeled Dr Adrian Powell away and then lifted his blindfold, he vomited behind his gag at the unholy sight. The resultant choking caused the leader – he could tell from the body language how they deferred to him – to undo the binding holding the ball of cloth in place and yank it out. Powell heaved up his stomach’s contents onto the mattress at the side of his head and followed this with a stream of pungent invective.

  ‘You scoundrels! What do you think you will achieve by this? Scotland Yard will hunt you scum down like the animals you are. The Board is not your enemy. If it wasn’t for us, you and your kind wouldn’t have—’

  The cosh flicked out from the man’s pocket and made contact with Powell’s temple. The room spun into black.

  When he drifted back to consciousness, he was all too aware the gag was back in place, albeit somewhat looser. The leader was at the foot of his bed, flanked by two associates. Like Sir Gilbert before him, it didn’t take long for the neurologist to appreciate he was in some kind of operating theatre. A feeling of despair and hopelessness flooded through him.

  ‘Now, Dr Powell, this will go easier without histrionics,’ said the deadened voice from behind the canvas and rubber of the mask. ‘We are hoping, to be honest, that Sir Gilbert will be enough demonstration of our intent. But we suspect not. A government that can send ten thousand men to their deaths just to prove a point to the French commanders is not inclined to listen to reason.’

  Powell turned as something was brought into the room on a wooden trolley.

  ‘I do believe that you were involved in the case of Rifleman George Horrocks. No? Doesn’t ring a bell? Shipped back from France, deaf as a post and mad as a brush. But I think you decided that he suffered from neurasthenia – weak nerves – before he was exposed to the guns of the Western Front. Not shell shock at all, but a family trait, typical of the lower classes. And, therefore, his inherent weakness meant he and his family were liable for minimum compensation. No matter, the wife put the kids in the workhouse, anyway, you know. She’s having another man’s baby, too. I think you discussed all this in front of him. Deaf as a post maybe, but he could pick up the gist of things, apparently.’

  Powell pulled at the restraints on his wrist and ankles, even though he knew it was to no avail. From behind the gag came a series of grunts, embryonic words that would not form.

  ‘Rifleman Horrocks went back to his hospital and, that night, he hanged himself. No doubt due to some weakness of his nerves.’ The man now spoke to his assistants. ‘Are you ready? Good.’ He addressed Powell once again. ‘And so, in memorium to Horrocks and all the other men suffering from some congenital weakness of the nerves, a lack of manliness as you might put it, we have decided that this demonstration will involve both your ears.’ He gave a nod and a low vibration filled the room. He leaned in close enough for Powell to smell his hair oil. ‘And your sanity.’

  TWENTY

  ‘I was summoned by Mycroft,’ said Holmes by way of explanation of his appearance at Wimpole Street. He had smoked half a cigarette. ‘I have just come from him.’ The remnants of an earlier cigarette lay crushed in the ebony ashtray on the table. Holmes had been there some time and had already that morning visited either the Diogenes or his brother’s Pall Mall lodgings. He must have caught a very early up train from Lewes, thought Watson. ‘I must apologize to your Mrs Turner for the mess I have made.’ He pointed to the stack of newspapers, some of which had been snipped, leaving curls of offcuts on the carpet. ‘She’s no Mrs Hudson, but was useful enough.’

  ‘Holmes, it’s good to see you. How are you
?’

  ‘Greyer, older. No wiser.’ He smiled, a slight, cold thing. ‘Quite the contrary.’

  Watson didn’t comment. He knew better than to try to hurry Holmes along. He would tell him in his own good time and in his own order. Meanwhile, Watson sat, placed the bomb fragment on the floor next to his chair, unbuttoned his tunic, lit a cigarette and studied his friend. His initial thought had been how well his old colleague looked. But a closer inspection showed the dark smudges beneath the eyes, the slight yellow in the corners, the tremor in the right leg kept under control by the folding of the limbs. The comment about him being no wiser was a reference to the memory lapses that plagued him during the worst of his pernicious amnesia. Had they returned? Watson made a mental note to use this unexpected visit to give the ex-detective a full medical examination, well aware that milking a bull might be easier.

  ‘What is that?’ Holmes asked.

  ‘What is what?’

  ‘That item at your feet.’

  ‘Part of a German bomb.’

  ‘Fascinating. May I see?’

  Watson handed it across and Holmes turned it over in his hands, his lips pursed. Then he seemed to dismiss it. ‘Tell me everything that has happened this past week.’

  ‘Didn’t Mycroft give some of the details?’

  ‘Hardly. A sketchy account, at best.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I never thought these words would pass my lips, but Mycroft Holmes is a very frightened man.’

  ‘Frightened?’ It was difficult to picture. Mycroft was a man who, in his day at least, did the frightening. ‘How so?’

  ‘My dear Watson, let us begin at the beginning. Tell me everything, no matter how trivial.’

  ‘Starting from when?’

  Holmes thought about this for a moment. ‘Let us say, the day before the disappearance of the Dover Arrow.’