by Barry Day
“The Boers in South Africa … the underground nationalist army that is coalescing in Ireland … Germany seems intent on fanning any likely flame of discontent and presumably they feel that Mr. Cain has suitable incendiary qualities. But quickly, we must see what else we have here before the Irregulars run out of steam. No, don’t bother putting things back tidily—I want Cain to know someone was here.”
We passed rapidly into another area which contained walls of shelves stacked high with provisions in cans and boxes.
“The wherewithal to feed your small army when the Horseman called Famine appears … And what have we here …?”
We had now reached one final partition. Holmes repeated his Open Sesame performance and we found ourselves looking into a laboratory so well-equipped that it would put any London hospital to shame. Stainless steel benches gleamed dully. Rows of retorts and bunsen burners receded into the far distance. All along one wall were stacked crates and belljars full of various coloured liquids. It was clear that, during the day, the place was home to dozens of workers. But working at what?
“Holmes, this must be what young Wiggins saw being unloaded.”
“Indeed, old fellow. And, unless I miss my guess, Pestilence is staring us in the face.” His attention was rivetted by a large retort containing a singularly repulsive greenish liquid that seemed to roil and shiver in the uncertain light of our lantern. “We may just have enough time … Watson, would you be so good as to watch the main hall—and play Cave …?”
With that I saw him take a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket and pick up a test tube from a nearby rack, before I hurried back to the steel door. At the end of the hall the men in black seemed to be getting matters under control. The great doors of the Church were thrown wide and the smoke was gradually dispersing. The urchins had vanished like mist in the night. It was only a matter of time before at least some of the guards returned to our end of the building.
“Holmes!” I hissed.
“Coming, Watson.”
And then, in that slow motion way things always happen in dreams, we were outside the building and Holmes was reaching for his tools to relock the door. To do so he had to hand me the stoppered test tube he had been carrying so carefully.
“What is it, do you suppose?”
“I’ve no idea but I feel it would be most advisable to see that it stays where it is, old fellow. And now I think we have earned our rest. A profitable evening, Watson, though not inexpensive. Let me see, I offered Wiggins a sovereign a head for his merry band and unfortunately, on these occasions, Wiggins’s grasp of arithmetic seems to desert him—invariably in his favour.”
Chapter Fourteen
But Holmes’s talk of rest turned out to be just that—talk. When I came down to breakfast the next morning, he was still engaged with his chemical apparatus that he had made a beeline for as soon as we had returned the previous evening.
His hair was disarranged, his fingers stained with chemicals and the smell in the room was indescribable. If it suggested anything, it was rotten eggs. I decided to settle for a cup of tea and some toast.
“Anything or nothing, Holmes?”
“Nothing good, Watson. It needs more qualified minds than mine but from the tests I have made I would say that this distillation, of which I took a small sample, was a hybrid enhanced to be particularly corrosive to the human digestive system and with one further disturbing property …”
“That sounds quite disturbing enough to me already—and what is that, pray?”
“When it comes into contact with water, the essential element multiplies manyfold. In short, water causes it to divide like a demented amoeba and become infinitely more deadly. The question is—what does he intend to do with it? And have we by our intervention—for, make no mistake, he is by now well aware of it—caused him to postpone those plans? Today, as you will recall, was the day on which he promised to surprise us …”
“Of course, St. Valentine’s Day.”
“The day on which one sends a gift—without revealing the source … Let us hope Lestrade brings us good news in that connection …”
But when the Inspector arrived a few minutes later, it was apparent from the expression on his face that he did not.
He took off his bowler hat and wiped the inner band assiduously, then dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead.
“I reckon the visitors Mr. Cain received last night—and, of course, I have no idea who they might have been—must have properly put the wind up him. When we got around there early this morning, following the receipt of certain information …”—and he cast a veiled look in Holmes’s direction—“we insisted on inspecting the premises in the light of the recent fracas. That way it doesn’t require a warrant,” he added by way of explanation.
“And, of course, you found nothing?” Holmes looked at him past the test tube he was holding up to the light.
“Not a blooming thing. I don’t doubt that there had been arms there, since there were plenty of traces of oil on the floor. They explained the food away as being provisions for the soup kitchen they were about to set up for the local poor …”
“But the laboratory …?” I said and could have bitten my tongue, for how could I have known about the laboratory unless …
Fortunately, Lestrade ignored my interruption. “As for all the test tubes and such, The Cain Foundation is apparently doing research into rickets and other diseases that affect the poor …”
“Yes,” said Holmes, “and I have little doubt that—among many other things—that is precisely what they are doing. No, Lestrade, I’m afraid you will have to keep a round-the-clock surveillance on the premises. Use whatever pretext you need to, but let nothing and no one leave that building until we have determined what Cain intends to do with this hellish brew.”
And then he explained to the Inspector what he had found.
“When this is over, Lestrade, I have no doubt that Watson and I will come quietly and plead guilty to breaking and entering …”
“I somehow doubt that it will come to that, Mr. ’Olmes,” said Lestrade soberly. “What worries me is that this chap could strike anywhere and we’ve no idea where.”
“Not anywhere, Lestrade. The man is an actor. He will want a theatrical effect, one that affects a number of people instantaneously. As long as he is immured in his so-called Church, we can deny him that possibility and frustrate him to the point where his dementia will drive him to reveal his purpose. Only one thing worries me …”
“And what is that, Holmes?” I interjected.
“He has promised London a Valentine and that promise runs out at midnight tonight.”
Soon after, Lestrade left, gingerly clutching the test tube Holmes handed to him with instructions to have it further analysed in the police laboratories. None of us, however was in any real doubt as to what those tests would reveal.
It was also agreed that we should join the Inspector and his men in their Whitechapel vigil as this symbolic day drew to a close.
“And on the stroke of midnight we shall have Irene out of there, whether she will or no. There is no possible further purpose to be served by her remaining.”
“Amen to that,” I added fervently.
The rest of that day was the longest I can ever remember. There was nothing for us to do but wait.
Holmes pretended to occupy himself by doing some long-neglected filing of his Index books, while I occupied myself with a popular novel that had singularly failed to capture my attention for several weeks now and continued to do so today. Whenever I looked up, though, I noticed that his gaze was as much on the window as on the page.
Mrs. Hudson served us lunch but both of us picked at our food, much to the disgust of that good lady, who expressed herself by the way she rattled the crockery as she cleared it away.
In the afternoon I could stand the strain no longer and went for a walk into Regent’s Park. How normal it all seemed, the soldiers strolling with their girls, the na
nnies with their small charges, elderly couples taking the air. All of them going about their daily business, quite unaware of what threat hung over their heads. And, for the life of me, had any one of them asked me to explain, I would have been totally lost for an explanation. Nonetheless, I was filled with a sense that somehow I was responsible—at least in part—for their continuing to enjoy the lives they took so much for granted.
Darkness had fallen when I arrived back at Baker Street and the gas lamps were shedding their familiar protective glow over the passers-by. As I climbed the stairs, I heard Mycroft’s familiar booming tones.
“Sherlock,” he was insisting, as I entered the room, “in the light of what you have told me, I do not see that we have any reasonable alternative. Habeas corpus may apply to normal circumstances but these are not normal circumstances. At least if the man is incarcerated in the Tower …”
“Then one of his minions would carry out whatever is to be carried out and Cain will shout from the top of that Tower that he has been victimised for his beliefs. Governments have fallen for less.”
It seems to me that Mycroft has lost several shades of his naturally ruddy complexion.
Holmes continued. “We must be constantly at his elbow and harrass him until he commits himself to action. I am convinced that he means to act before this day is out. His ego will let him do no other. Lestrade and his men are in Whitechapel now and will remain there until further notice. Watson and I will be going there to join them shortly. Perhaps you would care to join us?”
The prospect did not seem to be one that exactly thrilled Mycroft but his answer was forestalled by a dramatic knock on the sitting room door, which was then flung wide open.
In the doorway stood Oscar Wilde.
“My Trois Mousquetaires! Don’t you adore Dumas? Père, of course, not fils: Lacks Balzac’s rowdy canvas but what narrative drive! I knew I should find you all here and you shall not escape me. I have come to escort you to the experience of a lifetime …”
Then, seeing the blank expressions on three faces …
“The opening night of my new play, of course. I call it The Importance of Being Earnest. It is the ultimate embodiment of my philosophy of life that one must always take trivial things seriously and treat serious things with studied triviality. It is the only way to live.”
Misreading our hesitation—for he had struck us all speechless—“No need to dress formally, my dears. It’s just us. You shall be in my personal box.”
It was Holmes who recovered first. “Mr. Wilde, I’m afraid …”
“Oscar, please. After all we have been through …!”
“Oscar, then. Much as we would like to, I’m afraid …”
Wilde covered one ear dramatically with a lavender-gloved hand. “I refuse to hear that tedious word ‘No’. My nerves are already as taut as the strings of a Grecian lyre. I cannot believe that you would so much as contemplate leaving me to the unaccompanied company of that dreadful man, Cain. Why I invited him, I shall never know. Insane generosity will be my downfall, mark my words …”
“Did you say ‘Cain’? But surely he will not be coming this evening?”
“Will he not? I ran into the appalling fellow and his cohorts just as I was leaving the theatre to come here. He has the box opposite ours. What he will make of my bon mots, Heaven knows. But, if we are fortunate, Heaven will not pass on what it knows to Mr. Cain.”
He seemed prepared to go on in this extemporaneous vein indefinitely but my friend was not.
His face was set in that expression which spoke of absolute determination and boded ill for any adversary, the brows set over those hawk eyes. He positively bounded from his chair and hastened towards his bedroom. Turning at the doorway, he looked at Mycroft and myself.
“Come, gentlemen. Waterloo awaits. The question is—for whom?”
For once Wilde looked genuinely puzzled.
“Waterloo? You have been misinformed, Sherlock. The play is at the St. James’s …”
Chapter Fifteen
As the cab drew near to the St. James’s Theatre, a little to the south of Piccadilly Circus, we could see the crowds gathering and sense the excitement. Elegantly-dressed couples were descending from carriages. Others were standing outside the theatre, waiting for friends, bundled up against the freezing night air and hoping to draw warmth from the gas-lit torches that illuminated the building’s façade.
It had started to snow earlier and the sky looked full of it. In fact, it turned into one of the worst blizzards the city had seen in years. It was most definitely a night for sitting by the fire with a warming drink. Instead, here we were traipsing around in pursuit of some wraith.
Mycroft turned to Wilde.
“Am I not correct in thinking that you have been making something of a habit of this lately?”
“Yes, I really must learn to restrain my literary productivity,” Wilde replied. “An Ideal Husband at the Haymarket in January—though I fear its author falls somewhere short of its title—and now Earnest. I had better recline on my laurels for a while, lest London’s actor-managers rebel against my dominance of their domain. But how wonderful to have a captive drawing-room of several hundred every evening to hear one talk—and have them pay for the privilege!”
As he spoke, he took a flower from his pocket and began to arrange it carefully in his buttonhole. It looked at first glance like a carnation—except that it was coloured green. Now it was Holmes who spoke.
“I have heard of your penchant for the green carnation on these occasions but, try as I may, I have been unable to deduce anything significant from it. Nature improved by art, perhaps? Pray set my poor mind at rest.”
“As intelligent a supposition as I would have expected from you, Sherlock, and it will do as well as any,” Wilde answered, adjusting the flower to his satisfaction. “In point of fact, its sole purpose is to irritate mine enemies. It means absolutely nothing at all—which I find to be its principal charm. But everyone thinks it does … Ah, what have we here?”
The cab had been approaching the Stage Door of the theatre and some sort of argument seemed to be taking place. The crowd of patrons were behaving as every English crowd behaves when it encounters a public incident—shying away, so as to stay uninvolved and yet lingering to satisfy its curiosity. This enabled us to see a middle-aged man in evening dress trying to thrust his way past a couple of burly policemen and get to the Stage Door.
The man’s face was red with anger and he clutched a bouquet in one hand, presumably for one of the leading actresses. And then I saw that it was not a bouquet of flowers he carried but vegetables. There was a cauliflower surrounded by leeks, turnips, celery and carrots. It was as bizarre a spectacle as any I can remember.
Then the choleric man shouted at one of the policemen. “Don’t you know who I am?”
“I’m afraid we know only too well, sir.”
It was Wilde speaking in a subdued tone. As I looked at him, I could see that the incident had clearly affected him.
“That, gentlemen, is the Scarlet Marquess. Queensberry. Bosie’s father,” he added by way of explanation. “He believes that it is inappropriate for his son to be such—‘good friends’, shall I say—with someone of my age and somewhat extravagant disposition. And there have been times lately …”—here he smiled wryly—“when I am forced to agree with him.”
Then the old Wilde was back. The perverse buttonhole was firmly adjusted. “But one does not desert one’s friends—especially when one strongly dislikes them. Driver, go on to the main entrance, if you please.
“I had hoped to introduce you to the remarkably talented cast who have the honour to be playing my little piece this evening. But perhaps later …”
A few moments later we were pushing our way through the theatre’s crowded foyer.
It was clearly a gala occasion. I saw many a face famous from the society columns, a number of senior politicians from both parties … the great and the good and a number of others wh
o would settle for being either. But now I was beginning to think as Wilde talked!
One thing it was impossible to miss was the way that every head turned as Wilde passed by. Many people spoke to him and for each of them he had a witty word, even though it seemed to me that the people he addressed were smiling even before he said anything, as if they expected it to be amusing. Many of them took a second look and whispered excitedly to their companions when they saw who else was in his party.
Then the lights briefly dimmed and the uniformed attendants started to discreetly urge the crowd towards the interior of the theatre, so that the performance could begin.
“Gentlemen, we are up here to the right,” said Wilde. “Allow me to lead the way.”
Just as we were on the point of following in his impressive wake, there was another altercation at the doors, which two attendants were trying to close.
“Oh, no—not Queensberry again!” I thought and my heart sank. The last thing we needed on this of all evenings was an irrelevant scene. We still had to locate Cain and his party, which was the whole point of coming here.
Then I saw that the cause of the argument was not an outraged aristocrat but a disreputable little boy. Wiggins!
With some difficulty I was able to disengage him from the clutches of one of the attendants, much to the astonishment of a few latecomers who were hurrying past. I led him to a corner of the foyer and then Holmes was at our side.
“What has happened, Wiggins?” I have never seen him more concerned.
“It’s like this ’ere, Mr. ’Olmes,” said the boy, trying to catch his breath and straighten his clothing at the same time—the latter being the more difficult of the two tasks, since it was not at all obvious what its original condition was meant to be.
“I was doing me regular rounds like I do every night and keeping an eye on that window, when the lady appears as usual. Only this time she seems kind of upset—frightened even. She usually just stands there for a bit, smoking her cigarette like, just to let me know she’s all right. But tonight she was looking out for me and as soon as she sees me, she opens the window and throws me a package …”
