by Robert Ryan
‘Well, it looks like Kent, perhaps Folkestone again, but the observers at Canvey Island report bombers directly overhead as well. Headin’ this way, maybe.’
‘Sound the “Take Cover”. It’s a bomber’s sky out there tonight. They’d be fools not to come to London.’ A fleet of bobbies on bicycle with handbells and placards instructing the public to seek shelter would now spread out of the station, an action likely to be repeated across the city.
The sergeant disappeared. Adams refocused his attention on Bullimore. ‘And you, Inspector, go and throw some cold water on your face and put an arrest warrant out.’
‘For?’
‘For Major Watson, of course!’
TWENTY-SIX
Watson came back to the world shivering, his nostrils full of chloroform, his head ringing like the Great Bell of Westminster with bass notes by a steam pile-driver. He was also unable to see a thing. He managed to work a hand free, shrug off the coarse woollen blanket that had been laid over him and felt his face. His finger probed his eyes. There was no pain. He could blink. No sign of stitches. No mask.
He hadn’t been blinded.
He groped around trying to get his bearings. He had been laid down on a straw mattress. Beyond that was a stone floor so cold to his touch the skin was almost ripped off his palm. He peered into the darkness, hoping for his eyes to adapt, but there was nothing but those swirling retinal patterns generated by eyes struggling to comprehend the total absence of light. It reminded him of when he been buried alive.
Don’t dwell on that.
He cast aside the blanket and stood, and almost immediately his teeth started a castanet chatter. The air around him was at freezing or below. He began to stamp his feet and slap his arms, even though he knew it would do little good to his immediate outlook. The stinging on his face told him he would die from hypothermia quite quickly unless he was released from what he assumed was a prison. But how big was this room he had been incarcerated in? He had no idea. Finding out had to be a priority.
Before he began his explorations he reached down, wrapped the blanket around himself and tried to remember exactly what had happened in those last few moments in the taxi. Trenchard was dead no doubt. The man with the false hand, the flour-thrower, he was conceivably alive – the shooter had certainly been convinced he had missed him – but also possibly wounded.
Trenchard? That was a puzzle. He didn’t have him down as a man of violence. Yet he obviously knew the flour-thrower. And he had the medical skills to maim the kidnapped men. And he had used a taxicab to kidnap Watson, the same modus operandi as the abductors of Sir Gilbert.
But who had kidnapped him the second time? And who had attacked Trenchard? Clearly, Trenchard had been in cahoots with the flour-throwing man all along. But why was he killed?
His initial thoughts that it must be MI5 or Special Branch coming to the rescue no longer seemed to hold water. Both were unorthodox organizations, but this seemed beyond the pale. Perhaps it was a rival faction within the GODS organization – someone who thought they could teach Watson a thing or two about being blinded.
And cold.
Yes, and cold. His thoughts went back to Holmes. Mycroft will think I’ve abandoned him, he thought. And so might Sherlock. That caused him more pain than the chill seeping through to his bones.
With arms outstretched he began to pace away from the mattress, counting as he did so. He had reached six when he struck the first object, solid to the touch, but also moveable. Not a wall. He pushed again and there was the squeak of metal and the restless shifting of chain links.
He used his fingertips this time, as he explored the texture. It was giving to the touch. Using both hands he found that only part of it yielded. Some sections were hard. He traced those with his fingers, trying to visualize. Then something else, crackling under his probing.
Meat, bone, gristle.
It was a body, flayed of skin.
He took a step backwards. Sniffed the air. The chloroform had initially masked any scents, but now he could smell flesh and blood in the room. He lifted his fingers to his nose. Acid curdled in his stomach at the sharpness of the scent.
Perhaps, he thought, this has nothing to do with the Sir Gilbert case. Perhaps this is personal. Someone he or Holmes crossed many years ago. After all, Von Bork had come out of the woodwork looking for revenge on the detective and had used Watson as his instrument of torture. Could it be Sebastian Moran, Professor Moriarty’s blunt instrument? Or perhaps Frank Shackleton had heard Holmes was making enquiries. First Porky Johnson, now . . .
Watson moved to his left and marched forward, arms outstretched. He hit the same sort of carcass. He pushed this one harder, and again metal protested. This time, he ran his hands all over the body, standing on tiptoe to reach the top, squeezing what was left of the stubby limbs.
Pigs.
The space contained slaughtered pigs, suspended from hooks and chains on a metal frame of some description. It was a cold storage.
‘Hello.’
His voice seemed small and lost, suggesting this was a room of considerable size. He pulled the blanket tighter and began to stride up and down, parallel with where he had found the carcasses. Stay warm, he told himself, and you might have a chance. Stay calm and you might find a way out.
He stopped when he became aware of a strange sensation. The room was moving. Then it stopped. There it was again. No, it wasn’t movement as such but a vibration, a shaking, transmitted through the souls of his feet. The chains holding the pigs began to protest and he was aware of the poor animals shifting in the dark, as if waking up.
He felt something touching his head and instinctively shook it. When he ran his fingers through his hair, it was gritty to the touch. Dust. Dust was falling from the ceiling, like a fine, chalky rain.
There was a bombing raid going on. And he was right underneath it.
The boom of the guns from the park rattled the King Edward VII’s Hospital’s windows and the stabs of flame illuminated the wards until the blackout blinds were pulled down. Bullimore looked at the two Holmes brothers. Neither of them, in truth, looked very well. The more famous of the pair was sleeping, somewhat fitfully, his face pinched and pallid. Mycroft was a rather sickly shade of grey, as if he had just seen a ghost. When Bullimore approached he rose, stiffly, and examined the policeman’s credentials carefully.
‘How can I help?’ he asked. ‘As you can see, I’m rather . . .’
‘I just need to trace Major Watson’s movements. We have him coming here from Wimpole Street in the early afternoon and leaving . . .’ A concentrated burst of anti-aircraft fire all but drowned out his words. The man in the bed next to Holmes pulled the sheet over his head. Others moaned in terror. The guns were meant to reassure Londoners. For some, though, they were an unwelcome reminder of what they had been through. ‘When?’
Mycroft thought about this. ‘I didn’t make a note of the exact hour. But it was just getting dark.’
‘So around seven o’clock?’
‘I would say so,’ said Mycroft.
Bullimore noted the time in his diary and checked his watch. It was now close to midnight. Although the guns in central London were still firing, the bombers were, as was so often the case, concentrating on hammering at the East End, Woolwich Arsenal and the docks.
‘Is he in some sort of difficulty?’ Mycroft asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ Bullimore admitted. ‘Between you and me, there are those who think—’
Bullimore stopped himself. Why should he share anything with this man?
Mycroft sensed his unease. ‘Inspector Bullimore, I have more secrets in here,’ he tapped his head, ‘than you will learn in a lifetime. You would have no trouble sharing concerns with my brother here, because, of course, he has a long history of being helpful to the Yard. Consider me in loco inquisitor.’
‘Some hours ago an apparently abandoned taxicab was found in Regent’s Park. In it were a dead driver and, nearby on the gr
ound, Captain Trenchard, an associate of Dr Watson. An RAMC cap was found at the scene, which we believe to be Dr Watson’s. Dr Watson was also the last man to see Sir Gilbert Hastings before he was savagely mutilated—’
Mycroft gave a roar of a laugh and then stifled it, remembering where he was. ‘And you think that points to Dr Watson being what? A murderer? A blackmailer? A butcher? I have known the man for, let me see, when was that case of the Greek fellow? More than a quarter of a century, anyway. Do you think my brother here would have put his trust, his life, in the hands of a man who was less than honourable? Do you?’
Bullimore shrugged. He knew that human nature was not immutable, that good men go bad and, albeit more rarely, vice-versa.
Mycroft stepped closer, and raised himself to his full height. This gave him an inch or two on Bullimore. ‘I ask you to examine your instincts, Inspector, the ones that have got you this far in life and the police force. Do you believe Dr Watson is this scoundrel you portray? Look into your heart, man.’
Bullimore did not want to look into his heart. All he would find, he was certain, was a mass of scar tissue. ‘I believe Dr Watson to be a good man.’
‘And have you put out an order to apprehend him?’
‘I have. Or, at least, my chief superintendent has ordered me to do so. An arrest warrant.’
‘The fool. Have you done as he asked?’
Bullimore took a deep breath. ‘No, not yet.’
‘Then I suggest you refrain from doing so.’
‘I will be in so much trouble—’ the policeman began to protest.
‘Perhaps not as much as Dr Watson.’
‘How do you mean?’
Mycroft appeared to deflate a little now he had won his point about the warrant. ‘As my brother would tell you if he were awake, I am no detective. My forte is the gathering and analysis of facts and figures. But it seems to me there is an alternative to the ludicrous idea that Watson is not on the side of light.’
‘And what is that?’
‘That he has been taken by the forces of darkness. Someone, somewhere, means to do him harm.’
‘But why?’
‘Perhaps, without knowing it, Watson has got too close to the truth. And he has paid the price for it.’
‘Watch, man.’
They both turned at the sound of the thin, reedy voice.
‘Watch . . . man.’
Mycroft was by Sherlock’s side in an instant and the younger brother gripped his arm. His jaw was working as if trying to masticate the words before he spoke them. The eyes bulged alarmingly.
‘Calm down, Sherlock. Whatever it is can wait. Inspector, fetch a nurse, can you?’
Bullimore strode off and Mycroft laid the detective back onto the pillow. ‘You must relax, my brother. Whatever it is can wait.’
Holmes gave a frantic shake of the head.
‘Watch.’
‘Watch what?’ Mycroft consulted his pocket timepiece. He did not hold with the modish habit of wearing them on the wrist. ‘Or do you want the time? Gone midnight.’
A shake of the head. ‘Watchman. Watson. Tell him.’
‘Tell the watchman about Watson.’
‘No,’ the word came out like a howl.
Mycroft rearranged the words. ‘Tell Watson about the watchman?’
Now something close to a smile appeared, a brief, fleeting thing. Holmes’s body uncoiled and Mycroft watched him sink back into the pillow and close his eyes once more, temporarily at ease.
Tell Watson about the watchman. Well, that was easy enough. The trick would be finding Watson to tell him.
TWENTY-SEVEN
It had taken Watson some considerable time to find a corner and crouch down in it. If the ceiling of this abattoir storage room was about to collapse, he reckoned he had a better change of survival on the periphery. The corollary, though, was that he might freeze into position where he sat, like an icy gargoyle, unless he kept moving. So he performed what looked like a strange series of Swedish exercises, now squatting, now standing, swinging his arms and hugging his torso.
He had checked and rechecked his pockets, but there were no matches. He had used his last one moments before the taxicab had pulled up. Even so, the chances were his abductors would have searched him and removed them before imprisoning him anyway. His cigarette case and wallet were missing, after all.
Now the sting of chloroform had completely faded in his nasal passages, the combined smell of his porcine companions and the tang of blood was almost overwhelming. Those carcasses were worth a fortune. Although meat wasn’t rationed, the price had become prohibitive, more than doubling since the war began. It was possible this was a black-market operation, preparing for when full rationing was introduced. Could it be that he was simply dealing with common criminals?
When he was locked in solitary confinement in Harzgrund prisoner of war camp he had passed the time composing a new Holmes story, ‘The Girl and the Gold Watches’. But he had light then and writing implements. And he wasn’t in danger of freezing to death. All he had now were his mental faculties. He could use those to try to piece together what was going on. What had Holmes said? That it was as if he were waiting for an implosion, to drive all the scattered clues into one solid mass. Well, as long as his creaking knees held out, he could certainly try his best to stand in for Holmes.
It began with the attack outside the Wigmore Hall, by the man throwing flour. The man with the false hand. The man who had helped kidnap him. So, he was in league with Trenchard. The captain was obviously damaged by the war, but was a limp worth such drastic measures? Ah, but he did have a brother, still in Netley, who had suffered far worse injuries. What had he said in the cab? That they wanted to explain. Explain what? To justify the hideous, deliberate disfiguring of healthy men? Something that went against every principle of modern medicine?
Trenchard had been there when the news about the Dover Arrow had been delivered. But that was a sideshow, nothing to do with this.
Are you certain, Watson?
Holmes, you are lying in a bed, suffering the aftermath of a serious angina attack. Do you really expect me to believe you are in any fit state to comment on this affair?
Discard nothing for the moment. That is my advice.
Still, hard as he might try, Watson could see no link between the boat-ambulance and the GODS, whoever they might be. Rather a grandiose title for a group of blackmailing thugs. It suggested some sort of criminal dementia. He had seen no sign of that in Trenchard: ‘We just want to explain . . .’
But how can you explain the motivation for plucking a man’s eyes out? For that action also deprived hundreds of future patients of Sir Gilbert’s skills at eye surgery.
And then there was Mrs Crantock and her mysterious husband, John. Apparently, like Porky Johnson, killed by German bombs. Or possibly by fragments of British shells falling from the sky. Or—
There came the sound of metal, moving.
With his attention fully back in the cold storage room, he realized that the bombing raid had moved on without causing any major damage to whatever facility he was in. He stopped his ridiculous exercises and listened hard. It had been a bolt being withdrawn, of that much he was certain. Were they coming in to check whether he was dead? To gut him and hang him from hooks like the pig carcasses?
The squeak of a handle, the sort of giant lever such meat lockers tended to have on the outside. He had found the door earlier, but there had been no equivalent handle on the inside. He supposed that was because none of the regular inhabitants of such a place ever needed to leave.
A thin sliver of white light appeared, and Watson blinked. There was smoke in front of it. No, that was his breath in the chilled air. The slit grew to a long rectangle, and a shadow moved outside. Watson’s eyes began to ache and water at the sudden illumination. He was backed against the wall, cursing himself for not having unhooked one of the carcasses and fashioned himself a weapon from a piece of metal.
Too l
ate now.
Yes, thank you, I’m aware of that.
Now the door was fully opened and, framed in it, silhouetted by the sharp white light, stood one of his tormentors. And, judging by the hair and the skirt, it was a woman. Betsy Buck?
‘I don’t know if you can see this clearly, Major Watson, but I am holding a pistol pointing straight at you. Behind me, two men have rifles.’
No, not Betsy Buck. That wasn’t an American accent. Besides, this female was too tall to be the diminutive New Yorker.
‘I want you to approach me, hands held high. Do it now.’
He put his hands up and tried to place the voice. Mrs Crantock? No, not cockney enough. He took a step forward on legs wobbly from all his squat jumps. He stumbled a little, brushing against one of the many pigs that dangled from metal rails. He heard the hammer of a pistol click back.
‘No tricks now, Major Watson. You know I will kill you without hesitation if I have to.’
The voice in his head didn’t so much speak the name as shriek it, over and over again.
Miss Pillbody.
TWENTY-EIGHT
‘You look like a pile of shit.’
Inspector Bullimore nodded his agreement. ‘That’s roughly how I feel.’
He was sitting at a large circular dining table, without a cloth on it. Before him was Carter Amies, an ‘Agent of the Crown’, the catch-all term for men who served in the Secret Service Bureau. Amies was in the section now known as MI5, headed up by Vernon Kell, and responsible for domestic security.
The room they were in was vast. A former all-male dining club, once the scene of glamorous and often raucous dinners, famed for their many-course feasts, it now showed signs of neglect. Potted plants in the corners had wilted and died. Several of the gilded mirrors that lined the walls were cracked, possibly by bomb blasts, and silvery cobwebs were draped over the chandeliers. Amies had told him that this rather forlorn space was often used for MI5 meetings. They had to assume their offices were watched, and here there was no chance of eavesdroppers because they were the only people in the room and the closed drapes deterred any observers. Although it was daytime, they were speaking under the soft glow of gas mantles.
