The Sign of Fear

by Robert Ryan

  ‘You sound like you don’t approve, Inspector.’

  He stroked his chin. ‘Forgive me for asking this, but do you have any proof that you are Elsie Adler?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘A letter from your bank.’

  The car lurched again and kangarooed for a few feet.

  ‘How about a driver registration document?’

  From her bag she extracted the mustard-coloured document and handed it over. ‘It still has my old address on it.’

  ‘You drive?’

  ‘Rather better than your man.’ She watched the driver’s shoulders stiffen.

  Bullimore laughed. ‘I know horses that drive better than Radcliffe. But he’s learning.’ His face took on a serious cast once more. ‘Why did you go to that hospital?’

  ‘Why did you have me followed?’

  ‘What makes you think I did?’

  ‘I don’t believe in coincidences. You pitching up like that. And I would wager Old Street is off your normal beat, Inspector. Therefore either you or someone else followed me.’

  ‘I was curious about you,’ he admitted.

  ‘I went to the hospital, with John’s blessing, because it was where a man called Crantock was a nightwatchman. The man was thought to have been killed in an air raid, but there is some doubt. I thought it might be significant. Also, from what you said, Sir Gilbert was certain he was held in a hospital or somewhere with an operating theatre.’

  ‘Which St Luke’s Hospital for Lunatics never had.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said.

  ‘Cold baths, electroconvulsive machines, strait-jackets, yes. Plus, it is a D-Notice building . . . you probably don’t know what that is.’

  But she did: requisitioned for war purposes under the Defence of the Realm Act. Another fact to be tucked away. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’

  ‘Put it this way: we know these people aren’t operating from there. They couldn’t be.’

  She nodded, as if feeling rather foolish.

  ‘I think it is best if you don’t rush off on your own to investigate anything, Miss Adler. Leave it to the professionals.’

  If only you knew the half of it, she thought. ‘Yes, I can see that. I’m sorry.’

  His expression softened slightly at the apology.

  ‘I think I might have read too many of Major Watson’s stories.’

  ‘You would be surprised what a detrimental effect on Scotland Yard’s reputation they have had over the years. We can’t all be Sherlock Holmes.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘And clear anything you are going to do with or without Major Watson through me, please.’

  ‘I shall, of course.’

  Sadness. That was what she could see in his eyes. Pain and sadness. Well, perhaps that was all a policeman’s lot was. No, she suspected this was something outside of the job. A lover, wife or mistress, perhaps. She considered for a second what it could possibly be. Then she wondered at what point she would have to kill the inquisitive Inspector Bullimore.

  THIRTY-THREE

  By the time Mick Garavan had finished with Professor Carlisle, the man barely looked human. Barely alive, too. He had passed out during the rhinectomy. Lord Arnott, who had been forced to watch, had also fainted. Now the man who all and sundry assumed was a Shackleton removed his gas mask and let the sweat run free.

  His men had absented themselves, too, although by physically leaving rather than fainting. Once he had the fever on him, they knew it was better to be scarce. Most of his assistants were Canadian deserters he had picked up from the camps they formed in the thickets of Hampstead Heath and Epping Forest, men who supported themselves by petty robberies across London, mostly during the blackouts, but doing the odd bank or post office when the opportunity presented itself. It hadn’t been difficult to persuade them that there were bigger fish to fry in the city, if you knew how to go about it. Ernest Shackleton wasn’t the only one in the family who could inspire men to follow.

  Garavan walked out from the operating theatre and into the corridor. The German Hospital had been smashed by rioters early in the war, but had carried on going, serving the expat population of London: the numerous waiters, nurses, brokers and barbers who had been a prominent part of London life before the war. It was hit by Zeppelin raids in 1915 and had moved underground, to the bunker where he was now. The first Gotha raids in early ’17 had caused further anti-German uprisings and the main building was torched, with patients and staff inside. By some miracle nobody had died, but the wards and theatres were gutted. To anyone inspecting the blackened shell, it would seem there was virtually nothing left. But the Notfall Unterirdische Krankenhaus had remained relatively unscathed. Complete with generator for electricity and running water.

  In the former prep room, he washed the blood off his hands, watching it swirl down the plughole. Would Carlisle survive the butchery he had performed? It hardly mattered. He had already placed the advertisement that would keep the police wrong-footed. We are GODS and we want justice for all. How high and mighty it sounded. Whereas, in truth, their slogan should be: we are mere men and we want to be as rich as Croesus.

  It ran in the family, this lust for money and glory. Oh, they worship Ernie Shackleton out there, but in truth he often left England one step ahead of his creditors, off to pursue these fine ideals. Let’s walk across Antarctica, nobody’s ever done that before. Perhaps with good reason, Ernie. That’s why you end up travelling 800 miles in an open boat and then crossing some God-forsaken rock of an island.

  And yet they call you a hero.

  Once he had stripped off the bloodstained gown, Garavan returned to the operating theatre and looked down at his handiwork. An eye flickered open and he instinctively reached for the gas mask but stayed his hand. This one wouldn’t live to describe him to anyone. That was fine. Carlisle could stand in for all those Englishmen who lay shattered out on no man’s land, waiting for a stretcher-bearer who would never come. That was his role in this charade.

  At least, that was what Garavan told himself in the quieter moments. Sometimes it was difficult to unravel his motives.

  A mumbling behind a gag told him that Lord Arnott, too, had come to his senses. Garavan turned and, again, decided not to put the gas mask on. He knew his face was a powerful weapon when it came to persuasion. It was hard to show conviction from behind a wall of rubber, canvas and glass.

  The last of his victims had been propped up so he could get a clear view of what had been done to Carlisle, with a strap threaded through the bars of the bed holding his head in place. Garavan reached over and undid that and Arnott shook his head as he did so. The words coming from him were unintelligible; the eyes, however, were very eloquent.

  ‘I know, terrible business, isn’t it?’ said Garavan, as if he had been given no choice but to carve pieces off Carlisle and drop them in a kidney dish. ‘Terrible. And still, the Government doesn’t respond. How many more people have to be treated like that?’ He took out a cigarette and lit it. ‘And all this just for money. The most inconsequential thing about human achievement. Pieces of bloody paper.’

  The smell of congealing blood was powerful, and flies had appeared and were buzzing around the wounds on Carlisle’s face, some settling to suck at the carnage. He walked over and waved them away but, like a flotilla of warships standing offshore, they merely backed off until the opportunity arose to return.

  ‘We need to talk, Lord Arnott. I need to be able to remove that gag in the knowledge that you won’t merely hurl abuse at me. That we can talk like reasonable men. Can you do that?’

  There was no response. Lord Arnott clearly did not trust his self-control.

  Garavan pointed at Carlisle. ‘Look, I’ve been thinking. There just might – might, mind you – be a way we can avoid that happening to you,’ he said, his voice like soft velvet. ‘There might just be a way we can both live happily ever after.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  While Watson waited for the others i
n the sitting room of 2 Upper Wimpole St, he sorted through the latest pile of letters addressed to Sherlock Holmes that he had brought from 221b. He split them into two piles, one he thought of no interest, the other he reckoned might engage Sherlock’s brain while he was recuperating. He didn’t want the man to get so bored he would go wandering through the hospital corridors in search of a drugs cabinet. That wouldn’t do his delicate, damaged heart any favours.

  To his surprise there was one letter – more of a parcel, really – addressed to John Watson, MD. He did get letters from people who had enjoyed his stories – and sometimes otherwise – but they normally came through the publisher of the collections or the editor of the Strand. A letter addressed to him at 221b was a rare thing.

  It was a monogram, privately published, by the look of it. He checked the back page: ‘F. Norman & Sons, Torquay, Publishers and Printers’. Yes, probably a small run with this tiny local press. The title, though, intrigued him. Alkaloid Poisons and their Detection Post-Mortem. It was attributed to Mary Westmacott (Miss). He turned to the title page to see if more biographical information was offered on Miss Westmacott by way of her qualifications, but there was none. A few lines on the final page stated that Miss Westmacott had served as a nurse and was a qualified dispenser.

  As he flicked through, a sheet of paper fell out. It had the publisher’s masthead on it, and a single scribbled line. ‘I hope you find this of some use, either in fact or fiction.’

  A present, then, from someone who thought he needed to brush up on his strychnine, morphine and nicotine.

  There was the sound of the bell and footsteps on the stairs. Miss Pillbody entered the room, removing her hat and gloves as she did so. Mrs Turner was two steps behind. ‘Is Bullimore here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Mrs Turner, may I have some tea?’

  ‘I know it’s an easy mistake, but it’s not a tea room, Miss Adler.’

  She turned and caught the landlady in a beam of a smile. ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps I could make some for you?’

  ‘No, that’s all right, I’ll do it.’

  Miss Pillbody gave an irritated huff once she had left. ‘Watson, there is no operating theatre at St Luke’s Hospital for Lunatics.’

  Watson shrugged. ‘It was a long chance.’

  ‘But something is going on there. I could feel it.’

  ‘In your bones?’ he asked.

  ‘In my fingertips.’ She explained about the vibration through the gate.

  ‘Is this relevant to this case?’ asked Watson warily.

  ‘You’ll have to ask Bullimore. Where is he, anyway? I couldn’t get rid of him earlier. And now he doesn’t show.’

  ‘He sent a message that he was detained at a meeting.’

  ‘How did you get on?’ Miss Pillbody asked Watson.

  ‘I was going to wait until Bullimore was here, but . . .’

  She sat. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The man we are looking for is called Michael or Micky Garavan. He is a relative of Ernest Shackleton. By some quirk of nature, the resemblance is close enough for him to claim to be Shackleton’s brother, Frank. In this way he has often cast suspicion on Frank, when, in fact, he is the perpetrator.’

  ‘Sounds like a nice chap,’ said Miss Pillbody.

  ‘The thing is, this is not a man in the business of altruism. All this is some kind of screen, I am sure, to mask a more nefarious motive.’

  ‘Money?’ she asked.

  ‘I would say that is most likely.’

  Miss Pillbody slumped forward and frowned as she thought long and hard before asking: ‘The exhumation? Did that yield anything?’

  ‘It is not John Crantock buried in the coffin that bore his name. It was a man who either lived in or visited Colchester.’

  ‘That should be easy, then.’

  Mrs Turner arrived with tea. ‘Here we are. And some biscuits.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Turner. You are a treasure,’ said Miss Pillbody, as if she meant it.

  There was a rap at the downstairs door.

  ‘Bullimore?’ asked Watson.

  ‘That or the evening papers,’ said Mrs Turner. ‘I’ll go.’

  As soon as she had left, Miss Pillbody hissed: ‘Bullimore suspects me.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of not being what I seem. You will have to show some affection towards me.’

  ‘Affection? Watson asked, looking as if he had just been asked to kiss an eel.

  ‘Hand holding. Let me put my arms through yours. Be like my lover.’

  ‘Madam!’ Heat rose up to Watson’s skin and he felt the colour spread over his neck and cheeks.

  ‘Are you quite well, Major?’ Mrs Turner had entered with a stack of the evening papers. ‘You look flushed. Shall I open a window?’

  Watson ran a finger around his starched collar. ‘No, no, I’m fine, just a rush of excitement.’ Miss Pillbody gave one of her damned winks. Women shouldn’t wink, he thought once more. So unseemly. But then she was no ordinary woman. ‘At the feeling we are this close to a solution but can’t quite grasp it.’

  Mrs Turner handed out the newspapers. It didn’t take long to locate the latest pronouncement from the GODS:

  FORTY SHILLINGS OR LESS WHILE WE SUFFER

  PAY UP!

  THE GUILD OF DISAFFECTED SERVICEMEN

  ‘Why are they spelling out their name now?’ asked Miss Pillbody. ‘Why not before?’

  ‘I suspect we are moving towards the endgame,’ mused Watson. ‘On the face of it, after they dispose of the next person they have mutilated, then there is only one to go. The Ministry of Pensions and the War Office have not relented. What do they do next?’

  ‘But we don’t believe that, do we?’ said Miss Pillbody. ‘We don’t really believe this is about the welfare of soldiers?’

  ‘No,’ Watson said firmly. ‘This is an elaborate illusion. Like something from Devant or Maskelyne.’

  ‘“It consists admittedly in misleading the spectator’s senses, in order to screen from detection certain details for which secrecy is required.”’

  Both Mrs Turner and Watson looked at Miss Pillbody. ‘Maskelyne said that.’

  ‘What about the . . . what do you call them . . .?’ asked Mrs Turner.

  ‘Pictograms? Chinese, I believe,’ Watson said.

  ‘Do you read Chinese?’ asked Miss Pillbody.

  ‘No,’ said Watson, standing. ‘But I know a man who does.’

  ‘Ling-ch’ih,’ said Holmes without hesitation.

  ‘I knew you’d know.’

  ‘My knowledge is hardly complete, Watson, but I know this one, for it is evil indeed.’

  ‘Evil how?’

  ‘All in good time. Tell me of events since we last met.’

  Watson recapped everything he knew of the situation, adding in the most recent happenings. For his part, Holmes, closed his eyes and touched his fingertips together, as if in repose. But Watson was well aware that he was processing each fact, turning it over and examining it as a Hatton Garden diamond merchant might a precious jewel. At least, that’s what would have happened in the old days. At several points Watson worried that Holmes had simply fallen asleep.

  When he had finished, though, the eyes snapped open once more. ‘And you are convinced we are dealing with a man, this Garavan, who is creating an illusion to fool us?’

  ‘“It consists admittedly in misleading the spectator’s senses, in order to screen from detection certain details for which secrecy is required.”’

  ‘Bravo, Watson, I didn’t know you were a student of Maskelyne.’

  He gave a sheepish grin. ‘Actually, Miss Pillbody said it.’

  Holmes gave a shiver. ‘Please do not mention her by name again. To me, she will always be that woman.’ He looked at Watson, his eyes as hard as drill bits. ‘You have not softened towards her, I hope.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘After what she did—’

  ‘You have no cause to remind me, Holmes.’


  ‘My apologies.’

  In truth, he had almost forgotten what that woman had done on the bridge. He felt a flush of shame. The shade of Georgina Gregson had walked with him every day for months, but in the heat of the current chase she had faded somewhat, fallen behind a step. He must not allow it to happen again.

  Be like my lover.

  Never, he thought. Never.

  ‘You must act quickly, Watson. I shall come with you.’

  ‘No.’

  Holmes had already thrown the covers back. Watson put a hand on his shoulder. ‘No. I will never forgive myself. If you insist I shall call Matron. And then where will you be?’

  Holmes slumped back into the bed and pulled the blankets up. ‘Listen carefully. Fetch me an express messenger boy.’

  ‘They are difficult to find at night, Holmes. The raids, you know.’

  Holmes looked irritated. ‘Where is that policeman of yours? Bullimore. They have their own messengers.’

  ‘I left word to meet me here. I assume he is still detained.’

  ‘Then for pity’s sake get me a telephone!’

  Watson did not like the grey tinge to Holmes’s skin. He reached for the oxygen mask but found his hand slapped away.

  ‘Never mind that now. I shall call Mycroft. Or Churchill. Or Vernon Kell at MI5. We must find out what St Luke’s is being used for.’

  ‘You think it’s important?’

  ‘I think it vital. It has always been so. What use is a night-watchman? Why, he is someone who knows all the exits and entrances, for he has to check them on his rounds. No, Watson, we should have realized this earlier.’

  ‘I didn’t know the asylum had closed.’

  ‘Nor me. We have both been . . . distracted.’

  ‘I was a prisoner of war,’ protested Watson.

  Holmes smiled. ‘Granted, some have been more distracted than others. I shall shoulder the blame entirely. Who still remains in captivity?’

  ‘Carlisle and . . . Lord Arnott.’

  ‘Doctors? Medical men, are they?’

  ‘Carlisle. Not Arnott.’

  ‘What is Arnott?’

  Watson thought for a moment. ‘A banker, I think.’ He considered for a second. That didn’t sound right. ‘No, he works for the Treasury. And is a major stockholder in the Bank of England. That’s right, he was seconded onto the Compensation Board to advise on how much the country can actually afford to pay its crippled.’