Holmes stepped away from the window and looked down at me. “Whatever his motivation, you would do well to avoid him if you can. Word will undoubtedly spread regarding his involvement with you, and it will certainly not be to your benefit for there to be a repeat.”
Holmes’s logic was sound. I had no desire to speak to Galloway again and, besides, I would be free of the prison within a matter of hours. I reminded Holmes of that fact, though he had clearly not forgotten.
“True, Watson, but I would advise you to remain in your cell until someone returns with your official release papers. I have already completed such paperwork as is required from me, but the wheels of prison administration move slowly, and you are not likely to be free until this evening. In the meantime,” he concluded briskly, retrieving his hat from the table, “there are one or two small errands which I can profitably carry out. Rest assured, I will return in time to collect you and accompany you home to Baker Street, but for now I shall take my leave.”
Without another word, he rapped upon the door. There was a clatter as the guard outside found the correct key on his chain, then the door swung open and Holmes strode out, leaving me to consider my approaching freedom with heartfelt relief.
Chapter Ten
True to his word, Holmes was waiting for me at the prison gates, standing beside a four-seater in which Lestrade already sat.
“Come along, Watson,” he chided, with a rare attempt at humour. “If you delay too long, the authorities might decide you wish to continue enjoying their hospitality!”
There was no need to tell me twice. I hurried across the cobbles and into the carriage, dropping into the seat with an exhausted sigh. Lestrade gave a crooked smile of greeting and handed me a small hip flask.
“A drop of this will do you good, Doctor,” he said, and I was reminded that Bert Hardie had used the same words when sharing his drink with me. I had been moved to another cell soon after Holmes left, a holding cell for prisoners about to be released, and had not had a chance to say goodbye to the boy, but I had no intention of forgetting the promise I had made to myself. As soon as this nightmare was behind me, I would do whatever I could for him.
In the meantime, a long draught of surprisingly decent whisky was just what the doctor ordered, followed by a short trip across the city to Baker Street. While we travelled, Lestrade filled in the details of his most recent investigations.
“I was able to find out a little more about our Matty Galloway, you’ll be happy to hear, Mr. Holmes. For one thing, how he comes to be inside Holloway at all. It seems that he and his boys were caught red-handed, holding bags of coin which definitely didn’t belong to them.” Lestrade grinned, showing his small teeth. “Potter was furious. It wasn’t him who caught them, see. He’d been tipped the wink by one of his narks that Galloway was planning to rob a jeweller’s in Hatton Garden.” Lestrade chuckled at the memory. “Instead, he was collared breaking into a bank in Piccadilly. Tobias Gregson got the credit, though the rumour has it that it was one of Galloway’s rivals informed on him. But you’d think the gangs were Potter’s by right, the way they say he carried on. That’s the sort he is, though, Mr. Holmes. Too ambitious by a long shot. He’d rather Galloway had escaped, so he could arrest him himself, later on. Sheer idiocy, if you ask me.”
I had never heard Lestrade talk so slightingly of one of his colleagues before. It was entirely out of character for the little detective, and I caught Holmes’s eye with a question in my own, but he gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Better to let Lestrade tell his story without interruption.
“Go on, Lestrade,” he said quietly.
“There’s little enough more to tell, Mr. Holmes, sad to say. I cannot fault Inspector Potter for his industry, I’ll say that. I think I mentioned that he had men out to track the girl who tricked you into following her, but there is no sign of her, nor can anyone vouch for her existence, saving yourself. And to be fair, these street urchins come and go and nobody is any the wiser.”
To hear that the girl – the best possible suspect other than myself – had disappeared as though she had never existed was a serious blow to my defence.
I slumped back in my seat, prey once more to the rapid changes in mood that had plagued me since the case had begun. Lestrade continued to talk, but I admit I was only half listening. Instead, I watched London pass by the carriage windows, and wondered how long I would be free to enjoy this glorious city I called home.
“…as might be. And that’s about it. So, what do you think, Doctor?”
I was aware that Lestrade had just asked me a question, but I had no idea what it could have been. I looked across at Holmes, but his attention was elsewhere and he gave no indication that he had been listening to Lestrade either. Blushing with embarrassment, I asked the inspector to repeat what he had just said.
“Hmm, very well, Doctor, if I must,” he replied testily. “I said that the only other point of interest according to Inspector Potter is that a chap across the street thinks that he saw someone at the window of the room at one point. Waving a white handkerchief, he said, though he could not be exactly sure of the time.”
“A signal to an accomplice, perhaps?” I ventured.
“Potter thinks so, though I am afraid that he believes you were the man signalling,” answered Lestrade sorrowfully.
“But that is ludicrous!” I protested. “There has been no suggestion of my having an accomplice before now. Is Potter so determined to convict me of this crime that he will bend any new piece of evidence to fit his own prejudice?”
“I am sorry, Doctor, but he currently works on the theory that you noticed Constable Howie and realised that you would be unable to escape undetected, and so alerted an unknown lookout to make himself scarce, while you concocted the tale of being locked in the room by a phantom girl.”
We pulled up outside 221B before I could respond, but Lestrade remained in the carriage, pleading pressure of work at the Yard. In truth I was not unhappy to be left alone with Holmes in our familiar rooms. The pleasure of a return to the normal and the everyday filled me as I pushed open the door to be greeted by a smiling Mrs. Hudson.
Standing there, it was hard to believe that it was less than a week since I had followed the girl into the trap that had ensnared me, but equally it felt like months since I had last sat peacefully in my own home.
Mrs. Hudson would have fussed round me, I’m sure, but Holmes ushered her out almost as soon as she had laid out a light supper, and again I was not unhappy. I ate a little, then filled my pipe and settled myself contentedly in my chair by the fire.
“Very well, Holmes,” I said, as soon as my pipe was lit, “now that I am free, it is time for you to tell me how matters stand exactly.”
Holmes nodded through a cloud of pipe smoke. “There is good news and bad, as you would expect,” he said. “The good is that the police have been unable to provide any sort of motive for you to kill Miss McLachlan. Mycroft was able to have reporting of the case suppressed but one of the more salacious rags published an apparently unrelated piece which suggested that you have large debts and a gambling problem.”
“What! How dare they!” All contentment was forgotten as I leapt to my feet in fury. “I am not as busy in my practice as I could wish, but I can assure you that I have no debts of any significance! And I hardly think my occasional speculation on a horse or two could be termed a gambling problem!”
“Calm yourself, my dear fellow,” Holmes soothed. “Nobody gives the accusation credence, excepting that idiot Potter, who scrambles after evidence like a dog snapping at moths. The editor of the ’paper in question has been spoken to, and reminded of his civic responsibilities.”
I was aware that my face was flushed and my fists clenched tightly at my sides – what a ludicrous figure I must make. But the news that Potter was so actively seeking my downfall was, perversely, sufficiently enraging to have a sobering effect on my temper. If he were convinced I was guilty, he would not rest
until he could prove it.
“Potter is determined that I am a murderer,” I said dejectedly.
“As I said, he is idiotic, even by the low standards of Scotland Yard. Having seen Potter at work, the only surprise to me is that Lestrade is not already Chief Constable. Compared to Potter, he is the ideal detective.”
This unexpected praise for Lestrade was enough to puncture my anger entirely. I laughed, then laughed again at my friend’s confused expression.
“Your sense of humour astonishes me at times, Watson,” he grumbled. “Potter’s behaviour is no laughing matter. He has refused me access to the murder room. Worse, he has already released Miss McLachlan’s body to the family, thereby preventing me from examining it.”
This was a serious setback, designed to deflate my spirits. I noted with appreciation that Holmes had not shared this news while I remained incarcerated.
“That is preposterous!” I exclaimed. “Can Lestrade not intervene, in the matter of the room at least?”
“He is attempting to do so at this very moment,” Holmes replied evenly. “That is the business at Scotland Yard of which he spoke. And there is a possibility, no more, that several photographs were taken of the deceased woman, which may be of some use to us. I have impressed upon him the need to obtain both permission to examine the scene of the crime, and copies of these photographic images of the victim.”
That was something, I supposed, but I could not deny that my contented mood had taken a heavy blow. So much of Holmes’s work relied on his ability to sift through the detritus of a crime. To have that opportunity taken from him could only hinder his investigation.
In suddenly sombre mood, I looked around the room, taking in the familiar fixtures, and wondered how long I would remain a free man. True, I had been released for now, but only at the behest of Mycroft Holmes, and the odds that I would continue in that happy state seemed to be lengthening by the moment. I glanced over at my friend, but he had closed his eyes in thought, and it seemed wisest to allow him to remain so.
Chapter Eleven
After a fitful night’s sleep, the morning found me more hopeful. Before retiring, Holmes had expressed confidence that pressure from Lestrade would soon allow him access to the murder room, and had claimed to be intrigued by the quality of the photographs taken there. I wondered if he were simply attempting to allay my fears, but he assured me that he had initially been too negative and that Lestrade would find a way to circumvent Potter’s interference. I could only hope that was true.
We breakfasted while we waited for word. Rarely have bacon and eggs tasted so perfect, or The Times been so fascinating. Once or twice I caught Holmes looking at me thoughtfully, but he said nothing, and though I wondered if he had something to ask me, I could not bring myself to shatter the companionable silence by checking. The weather outside had taken a turn for the worse, and rain spattered hard against the window panes, but even that – and the heavy grey clouds visible above the opposite roofs – I welcomed. Every touch of normality was something to be savoured.
As this thought passed across my idling mind, Mrs. Hudson knocked at the door, and handed a telegram to Holmes, who tossed it unread onto the floor.
“Excellent,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Now that we have confirmation from Lestrade, we can examine the room in which Miss McLachlan met her doom. If I can uncover nothing there which the police missed, then I shall give serious thought to retirement!”
He was full of sudden vigour, and obviously eager to be on the move, but my eyes had not left the discarded telegram. “Should you not check that Lestrade has obtained permission?” I asked, reaching down and picking up the telegram.
“There is no need, Watson. The telegram comes from Scotland Yard, so can only have been sent by Potter or Lestrade. The former sees me as a competitor, and has obstructed and blocked me at every turn. Had he good news for us, he would delay sending it as long as possible, not speed it to us like this. Were the news bad, he would deliver it in person, savouring the victory.
“The telegram, therefore, is from Lestrade. He would take the opposite tack, and deliver any negative report in person, hoping thereby to soften the blow. Which means that this is positive news. Now, take hold of your hat and coat and we can be on our way. The longer we delay, the more chance there is of Potter interfering and the decision being reversed.”
I needed no encouragement, for as Holmes spoke I felt new stirrings of hope in my breast. I had allowed the travails of the previous days to cloud my judgement and cause me to forget the brilliance of my friend. Now, though, I remembered.
If there was anything to be found, I knew Holmes would find it.
* * *
Lestrade was waiting for us at the entrance to Linhope Street, sheltering underneath a jutting door lintel. He adjusted his hat and pulled his coat tight around him as he stepped out into the rain to greet us.
“Finally!” he said with exasperation. “I thought I’d catch my death in this downpour.”
Without waiting for a reply, he strode off down the street, Holmes and I trailing in his wake.
Constable Howie stood in the doorway to number 16. He straightened his back as Lestrade approached, then held the door open for us to enter. I followed Lestrade and Holmes upstairs, hesitating for a moment as we turned the bend in the staircase and the room we were there to see came into view.
The door was closed but unlocked. Lestrade pushed it open, and I saw that the lock had not been replaced since being forced open at my request. I paused on the threshold, and peered inside.
The interior was as I remembered it, except that the stench of violent death had been partially overlaid with that of lavender, the bed had been stripped and the bedding disposed of. Streaks of dried blood could still be made out on the floor beneath, but other than that there was no sign of the events of a few days previously. Even so, I wished that I were somewhere else.
Holmes stood at my side, facing the window. He turned to Lestrade with a scowl on his face.
“It is insufferable that Potter denied me access to this room until now, when who knows how many feet have trampled over the evidence. Much that might have been of interest will have been destroyed, and whatever is left will, at best, be severely contaminated.”
The inspector had the grace to look embarrassed, but attempted to defend his colleague nonetheless. “It is his right, Mr. Holmes, as you have been told more than once. Inspector Potter is no believer in amateur detection, and made that very clear to me when I spoke to him on your behalf.”
I could well imagine the reception Lestrade would have received from the belligerent Potter, and thought it good of him to have made the effort. Holmes must have had the same thought, for though he grunted in annoyance, he let the matter drop, and even highlighted a positive aspect to Potter’s actions.
“At least when Potter arrives I shall be able to examine the photographs which were taken on the evening of the murder. Bertillon in Paris has had some success with the process, but this will be the first time I myself have made use of such images. It is our good fortune that Major McLachlan has sufficient influence to insist that they were taken, before the scene of the crime was too badly disturbed.”
I feared that Holmes was placing too much faith in these photographs. I had of course seen the facial images which the police now often took of criminals, the better to identify them at a later date, but this latest innovation – capturing the aftermath of a crime in situ, as it were – seemed to me unlikely to prove of very much merit. Even photographic images taken in ideal conditions tended to be imprecise and inexact in nature, and precision and exactitude were of prime importance in any criminal investigation.
I had no time for further thoughts on the matter, for Lestrade was impatient and invited us to enter.
Holmes, however, was not to be rushed. He knelt by the broken lock and examined the splintered wood with his magnifying glass. Next, he strode into the room, counting his steps out loud, then
dropped to his knees and, ignoring the dirt on the floor, peered under the bed and the wardrobe. At several points he picked up tiny fragments of mysterious origin from the floorboards and dropped them into a small bag, which he held in his left hand.
Only twice did he address either myself or Lestrade directly.
“The building has gas laid in?” he asked first, as he toyed with the stump of one of the many candles which had illuminated the room when last I had been there. Lestrade confirmed that it did, but Holmes had already discarded the candle and seemed to have lost all interest in his own question.
Another minute passed in silence, then, “And the bed linen which was removed? Was it of good quality?”
Lestrade consulted his notebook. “That it was,” he agreed. “Good cotton sheets, a cotton pillow case and bed cover.”
“Any markings on the cover? Embroidery, for example?”
“Not according to this. Good quality but plain, it says. Is it important?”
Holmes nodded sharply. “Perhaps,” he muttered. He took one final turn round the room, stopping in front of the window and then again by the cheap print which hung from one wall.
Finally, he focused his attention on the inspector and myself. “We have made definite progress, gentlemen. This room may have more secrets to reveal, but they will, I fear, require the images that Inspector Potter has promised to bring with him. For now, we must be content with knowing how the victim was convinced to remain in this room, one so far below her usual station.”
“Are you claiming to have discovered something, Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade asked doubtfully. “Potter and his men have gone over every inch of this room, and found nothing at all.”
“I am claiming nothing, Inspector,” Holmes responded irritably. “I would have thought that any fool could draw the same conclusion from a brief examination of this room, but given what you have just told me, it seems there is at least one who has already failed to do even that.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Improbable Prisoner Page 8
