I could not help but laugh at the thought that the man I was investigating was also my protector. Hardie too was struck by the absurdity, and joined in the laughter. Even as I laughed, however, I could not rid myself of the thought that there was a finite amount of time to prove my innocence, and so far, Holmes and I had made little progress in doing so.
Chapter Eighteen
A date in late December was set for my trial, and with no indication of a significant breakthrough in my case, I arranged for my solicitor to visit to talk over my defence.
Osmont Marcum was a tall, saturnine Scot, who spoke little but listened intently as I described again the events that had led to my arrest and current incarceration. He sat opposite me with, open on his knee, a battered workbook in which he took copious notes in a small, tidy hand. In the main he contented himself with nods of encouragement as I spoke, but now and again he would ask for clarification of some point, transcribing my answers verbatim into his notes.
As I finished my narrative with a description of Potter’s visit to Baker Street, he laid down his pencil, and looked across at me with a sombre look on his face.
“Well, Dr. Watson,” he murmured in his soft Highland brogue, “that is quite a story.” He flicked through the pages of his workbook, nodding to himself as he did so. “Yes, quite a story, but one which might be bent to our will, with the correct manipulation.”
He stressed each syllable of the final word distinctly, as though creating time to decide what to say next.
“Naturally, we cannot directly suggest that Inspector Potter has been less than fair to you. No, that would not do at all. To accuse a policeman of fault plays no better to a London jury than it does to an Edinburgh one, you understand. But we can perhaps encourage a portion of those good men to come to such a conclusion unaided. The slant of your own statement, the evidence of the newspaper person, these are bound to cause any thoughtful man to pause, and wonder if the officer so often mentioned has been more idle than he should in his investigations.
“The name Sherlock Holmes will do us no harm, either. Your friend’s name is known to the public, while the man himself is not, which – having spent an hour in his company yesterday morning – is certainly the best way round.” He smiled thinly at his own jest. “Mr. Holmes is no doubt a great man, but his personality is somewhat… abrasive.
“In any case, Doctor, I would say that there are grounds for hope. I think I can make a decent fist of placing doubts in the jurors’ minds, and that is the only requirement in law. A debauched younger brother, his eyes on the inheritance that will free him to continue his unspeakably vile practices – and in France, at that! – combined with the short time in which you could have killed the lady and your lack of a provable motive… if I cannot place the shadow of doubt in a man’s mind with that as grist to my mill, well then, I should be ashamed to call myself a barrister.”
It was exactly what I needed to hear, but at the same time I could not allow Marcum to proceed in the belief that Alistair McLachlan was a guilty man. I explained about our meeting, and my conviction that he was no more a killer than I was myself. The lawyer listened attentively while I recounted the conversation, then shook his head as a father might at a child.
“You are a fine, honest man, Doctor, and it speaks well to your character that you accept everyone else as the same, but if you will allow me to protect you from your own self, you should forget all that McLachlan said to you. Had I known that he wished to meet with you, I would have forbidden it, for the man is a proven reprobate and by his own mouth condemned as a rake who has ruined more than one young girl. Indeed, sir,” he said, eyeing me critically, “I am surprised that you accepted his invitation to converse.”
I was inclined to bridle at the idea that I was a hopeless naïf, but what would be the point? Marcum was right. It was his job to protect me even from myself, and I had nothing but my own intuition as evidence that McLachlan was innocent. I did, however, correct his assumption that my meeting with McLachlan had been voluntary.
“Do you say so, Doctor? You were marched to a meeting like a pig to slaughter? That is unusual enough to be worthy of comment. I shall take a note of that, I think.”
This he did, then lapsed once more into contemplation of his workbook while I considered what he had said about my trial. Of course, I still had hopes that Holmes would somehow contrive to exonerate me before then, but I had not heard from my friend since passing back behind Holloway’s walls, and besides, I was not so foolish as to assume a successful conclusion to the investigation as a certainty. There had been several cases in the past in which Holmes had been unsuccessful, though obviously I had never placed these before the eyes of my reading public.
In a moment of mawkish humour, I wondered if someone would write up my own downfall should this prove another of his rare failures. The Case of the Deadly Doctor, perhaps?
Marcum was regarding me quizzically, and I realised that I was smiling. “I’m sorry, Mr. Marcum,” I apologised hurriedly. “You were saying…?”
“Merely that all is not as black as it may appear, Doctor,” he repeated. “But it seems you have arrived at that conclusion already.”
He rose and gave a small bow. “I shall take my leave of you now, and return in two days. By then I shall have a better idea of how best to present your case to the court.”
I thanked him sincerely and watched him as he left, then followed the guard back along the now familiar corridors to my cell.
* * *
The following day was a special one in the prison. Detectives’ Day was a regular occurrence in Holloway, if one I had until now managed to avoid. Several times a week, the police officers of London were invited into Holloway, where they were free to mix freely with the inmates, both to interrogate those suspected of a specific crime and, with luck, to spot among their number any man who, wanted for a more serious offence, found himself committed for a lesser one.
To the prisoners, Detectives’ Day was a double-edged sword. For some, there was the risk of unwanted identification but for most it was an opportunity to mingle more freely, as restrictions on movement were relaxed, and exercise time unofficially extended.
Although it had apparently not always been the case, the current practice was to allow the prisoners to gather in the exercise yard, and for the visiting policemen to pass among the crowd, speaking to whomever they wished. Even with Galloway’s dubious protection over me, I remained wary, and Hardie and I took up position at the edge of the yard, beneath two straggling, unhealthy trees. Like scientists watching competing protozoa swimming in a drop of water, we passed a half hour observing the detectives, visible in the mob only by the colour of their jackets, seek out their prey. Now and again, the winding progress of one would come to a sudden halt, a minute would pass, and then the colourful creature would move again, only now with a dully grey prisoner in tow.
I found the whole affair distracting, but Hardie soon grew bored, having witnessed the process many times before.
“I’m going to stretch my legs, John,” he said as he rose to his feet, brushing dust from his trousers. “Will you be all right by yourself?”
“I think I should survive,” I replied wryly. I mentally chided myself on my excessive caution as I watched him disappear into the crowd, which milled before me. I had been to war, had I not? The thought was a calming one. I resumed my observations, wishing I had my army revolver to hand.
The day was warmer than had been the case in recent weeks, and I actually felt myself struggle to stay awake. I had just decided that I had better take a turn around the yard before I fell asleep entirely, when an unwelcome voice interrupted my thoughts.
“I hope you’re comfortable, Dr. Watson?”
Potter squatted beside me, a cigarette burning in his hand. He saw me glance at the forbidden luxury, and awkwardly reached inside his pocket to pull out a silver case.
“Take one,” he offered. “Don’t worry. The guards’ll turn a blind eye
to our little bit of rule breaking.”
I shook my head and made to push myself to my feet, but Potter placed a hand on my shoulder and kept me seated.
“Don’t rouse yourself for my benefit, Doctor,” he smiled grimly. “I just stopped by to say hello and see how you were enjoying being back inside these walls.”
I had always known that Potter disliked me and had, until that point, assumed it was because he was certain of my guilt. But at that moment, with his face close to mine and his hand upon me, I realised that there was more to it than that. More than anything, he seemed enormously tired, and even saddened by something.
“Are you sure you won’t have a cigarette?” he offered again, and this time I took one, wondering at his manner. He pushed himself to his feet before awkwardly speaking again. “You know that there’s no personal animus in any of this, Doctor? In my actions, I mean. I’ve got a job to do. I have my orders, same as the next man.”
There was nothing to say to that, so I simply nodded and we smoked our cigarettes, then Potter shook himself and I thought he was going to say something else. Instead, he stared at me silently, before pressing several cigarettes into my hand. Then he turned on his heel and marched away without saying another word.
Shortly afterwards, the guards began to move we prisoners back to our cells, and Detectives’ Day was over.
* * *
I mulled over Potter’s strange behaviour as I walked in a group back to my cell, but could make no sense of it. As we climbed the stairs, the guard in charge held up a hand and we stumbled to a halt. Something was happening ahead, but from where we stood it was impossible to see which floor was involved. I pushed myself up on my toes but managed only to gain a decent view of another group of prisoners coming towards us from below, where my own cell lay.
Among the group was the unmistakable figure of Matthew Galloway. He caught my eye and grimaced, then very slowly and precisely shook his head. It seemed the day was to be filled with people acting strangely.
As suddenly as we had stopped, we started moving again. We reached the entrance to my cell before any of the others, and so, following custom, I entered and waited for the other prisoners to be housed, at which point the guard would walk back along the corridor, locking each door as he passed. I glanced across at Hardie, lying on his bed – and rocked backwards, acid bile rising in my throat.
Albert Hardie lay face down on his bed, but it was clear how he had been killed. An arc of arterial blood across the back wall demonstrated that he had been standing when his attacker came up behind him and cut his throat. He must have stumbled forward and pitched onto the bed, causing the remainder of the blood which exited his open throat to pool beneath him. Experienced surgeon though I am, I felt my stomach heave as I pulled Hardie over by one arm, and propped his body up against the wall. The thick, ripping sound of his body pulling away from the congealed blood, combined with the sweetish smell, caused me to retch dryly.
I steeled myself, and bent over the corpse. Hardie’s throat had been deeply cut, the incision extending from a point immediately below his left ear to another an inch in from his right. More chilling, however, was the cut made on his left cheek; a single bloody letter carved into the boy’s flesh. Ragged and uneven it certainly was, but there was no mistaking the capital letter G.
Chapter Nineteen
For the next few minutes I believe I took leave of my senses. How else to explain the fact that at one moment I stood over the bloody corpse of poor Hardie and the next I had my hand on the shoulder of Matty Galloway in the corridor outside his cell?
All I knew for certain is that I had been running, for sweat trickled down my face as I pulled the gang leader round to face me. Behind me I could hear shouted orders and angry exclamations. One of Galloway’s constant companions, quicker than the others, stepped forward with a growl and covered my hand with his, but his leader waved him off and took a step backwards, freeing himself from my grip.
“Dr. Watson,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
Perhaps it was the mocking tone, or it may have been the half-smile that played about his mouth, but for whatever reason Galloway’s question was enough to drive all caution from my mind. With no thought for the consequences – indeed, with no thought at all – I pushed myself forward and swung a fist at Galloway’s face.
Had I considered the matter I would have realised the futility of such an attack. Men like Galloway do not survive long if they are unable to defend themselves. With something like contempt he moved his head back, allowing my wild blow to connect with nothing but air, then lashed out precisely, striking me in the solar plexus before connecting with my chin as I doubled over. Briefly my vision blurred as I gasped for breath, then I tumbled backwards, to land heavily on the tiled floor. By the time I had recovered sufficiently to rise to my knees, Galloway and his followers had vanished into their cells and I was alone, panting in frustration and impotent fury.
Unfortunately I did not remain so for long. No sooner had I pushed myself to my feet than Shapley appeared at the end of the corridor.
“What’s this, Watson?” he snarled, making no effort to disguise his pleasure at seeing me brought so low. “Fighting again, is it? Don’t bother to deny it either. I saw the whole thing. An unprovoked assault on another prisoner. No doubt about it.” He smiled and moved to grab my arm.
“Unprovoked!” The injustice of the claim was more painful than any physical wound I had suffered. I batted his hand away and brought my face close to his. “Bert Hardie lies dead in my cell at this very moment and his killer walks away scot free, and you have the temerity—”
I should have expected that Shapley would not be alone. As I drew breath to continue my tirade I sensed a movement behind me, and half turned. I had a mere instant to register a figure stepping from a dark cell, and a truncheon swinging towards me, then I found myself deposited on the ground for the second time in as many minutes. This time, I had no energy or inclination to rise. I lay supine on the hard earth as Shapley leant over me and hissed, “Assaulting a prisoner and a guard, and now you tell me there’s an intimate of yours dead in your cell! The governor won’t look kindly on that, no matter what high and mighty pals you might have.” He gestured to the man who had knocked me down. “Take him straight to the governor.”
It took my befuddled mind a moment to take in the full horror of what he had said. Surely nobody could suggest I had killed Hardie? And yet, with my head still ringing and the sharp taste of blood in my mouth, I realised that was exactly what Shapley was suggesting.
When I arrived at his office, Keegan sat in his chair, engaged in muffled conversation with another of the guards, who bent low to make himself heard. Otherwise, the room was empty. Keegan glanced up at me quickly, then waved away the guard, who took up a position against the right-hand wall.
“Watson,” the governor grunted finally. “I have this moment had it confirmed to me that the prisoner Albert Hardie lies dead in your cell. Clearly, he has been murdered.” He glared at me across the desk. “Surely you can shed some light on Hardie’s demise, Watson?” he asked, leaving little doubt that he expected me to do so.
“Matthew Galloway is the man you want!” I exclaimed with some heat. “His men warned the boy off, but clearly that was insufficient. Whoever actually wielded the knife, Galloway’s is the hand behind it.”
“Warned off?” Keegan’s eyes lit up. “And why would Galloway need to warn the boy off? What had he been doing?”
There was no reason to prevaricate. “Hardie wished to help me and believed that he could best do so by observing Galloway and his confederates.”
“He did this at your behest, I presume?”
“No, never,” I protested. “In fact, I did all I could to dissuade him, but he is – was – an obstinate youngster, and would not be told.” I recalled Hardie’s earlier boredom, and in my mind’s eye saw him walk away into the crowd of prisoners. It seemed certain that he had found the excitement he desired
in spying once more on Galloway, and had paid the ultimate price for doing so.
“He would not be told,” I repeated, “and Galloway killed him for it. He slit his throat, just as he said he would.”
I heard Shapley enter the room behind me, but ignored him as best I could, preferring to focus on the governor, whose eyes I held unwaveringly. I was determined that he must be made to act against Galloway.
“In your cell?” he queried doubtfully. “And how did he manage to reach your cell unobserved, then return to his own, again without being seen?”
“No doubt he paid a guard to turn a blind eye. It would not be the first time.”
“Have you any proof of this allegation?” Keegan asked after a short delay. “Did any other prisoner hear Galloway threaten Hardie? Or see him bribe one of my guards?”
“No,” I admitted reluctantly. The room was warm and stuffy, and I struggled to marshal my thoughts. “Nobody else, but that makes it no less true.”
It sounded weak, even to me, and Keegan brushed the accusation aside with contempt. “You sent this young boy in your stead, you claim, to spy upon a well-known and violent criminal, and that same criminal then, predictably, threatened to kill him. Only, nobody but you had any knowledge of either the spying or the threats? Have I summarised correctly?”
My head spun as I considered how best to respond. In my place Holmes would have torn Keegan’s apparent logic apart by noting some tiny detail that I had missed. Holmes would have spotted something—
But I had nothing. My head still rang from the recent blows I had received, and I wondered if I had a concussion. In the end, I shook my head impotently. There was no justice to be found here, I realised. Perhaps I would have to take matters into my own hands.
“I thought not,” Keegan crowed, and ran a hand across his chin reflectively. “The allegations you have made against Galloway are common enough in an establishment such as this, and could be ignored, if that were the entirety of your poor behaviour. However, you have taken it upon yourself to make baseless allegations of far greater severity against my guards, and that I cannot brook! Shapley!”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Improbable Prisoner Page 15
