“True,” he conceded, “but the skin around the wound is unbroken. A curiously smooth object to leave such a pronounced bruise, yet not pierce the flesh.”
He fell into silent musing, and I knew from long experience that he would have forgotten I was even present.
The mortuary was freezing and damp, the smell of carbolic and ammonia overpowering, and I had no wish to remain there any longer than I must. Best to agree with Holmes, and attempt to shift his attention back to Lestrade’s more immediately important case.
With this aim in mind, I made a great show of leaning forward and examining the bruising in detail. If truth be told, it was a little intriguing. As Holmes had said, the skin was smooth and unbroken, which was not my expectation, given the size and extent of the bruise.
“It is curious,” I admitted, straightening up, “but if we are to hope for Lestrade’s help in any further investigation, would it not be wise first to examine the corpse regarding which he called you in?”
I recognised at once that I had made an elementary error in approach when Holmes’s mood was as erratic as it currently seemed. No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I wished I could snatch them back. Too late, however.
“Lestrade’s help!” Holmes hissed with exasperation. “The day I require such paltry assistance to solve a case will be the day I retire! Really, Watson, I did expect better of you!”
He glared down at the tramp’s body, as though it had somehow offended him, then back at me. His eyes glittered in the light of the lantern, and a drop of sweat rolled along the length of his nose. “I should have known to act upon my initial instinct, and not involved you,” he said stiffly. “My apologies again, Watson. I was…” his voice became indistinct as it trailed off into a mumble, but I think he concluded, “… thinking of a different man.”
Before I could say anything further, he strode past me and, pausing only to allow a stout, white-whiskered gentleman to enter through the outer door, swept from the building.
I looked across at Lestrade, who shrugged once again. “Thank you for coming down, Dr. Watson,” he said, “but now that Dr. Booth has arrived—” he gestured at the newcomer, who was even then placing a medical bag on the central table, “—it looks like I won’t require your services after all.”
For a moment I stood in the shadows, between sets of discarded corpses, in the cold, stinking mortuary, and considered my two recent dismissals, and wondered what exactly I had missed about my time with Holmes. Finally, I grunted an ill-humoured goodbye to Lestrade, handed him the lantern I still held, and followed Holmes out into the rain, the sheet of paper he had given me crushed into my pocket.
* * *
I did not hear from Holmes again for two days.
I had walked home from the mortuary rather than take a cab, the better to consider my friend’s peculiar behaviour. I was in little doubt as to its cause; Holmes had resorted in the past to chemical stimulation when a lack of intellectual activity had left him jaded, and his behaviour that evening was very familiar to me.
Whatever the specifics, it was incumbent on me as his friend to do what I could do snap him from the destructive spiral of which I knew he was capable. And there was only one thing that was guaranteed to do so: work. The dead tramp had, for whatever reason, piqued Holmes’s interest and was clearly a potential means of restoring him to himself.
I had decided, therefore, to present myself at Baker Street in the evening, but instead I answered a knock on my door that morning to find a telegram from Holmes, asking me to come to see him as soon as was convenient. My day was my own, my wife being out of town and my practice quiet, and so I dressed quickly, and made my way thence.
Holmes answered the door himself, already in hat and coat, and we were back in the street and hailing a hansom almost before I had had time to greet him. I was pleased to see that physically, at least, he was in a better condition. There was no sign of the shaking I had seen the night before last, though he remained pale. His voice was steady as he called to the driver to take us to Scotland Yard.
Settling back into his seat, he held up a hand before I could speak. “Please accept my apologies for my behaviour at the mortuary, Watson,” he said, with every sign of contrition. “I have been like a ship caught in a windless sea for the past month at least, idling my time away while the criminals of this city contrived to commit no offence worthy of my talents. My brain baulks at idleness, as you know, and it may be that I allowed my quest for stimulation to overcome my good sense, and my good manners.”
I appreciated the sentiment for the indication it gave of Holmes’s improved mental state, but hurried to assure him that no apology was needed.
“But why are we headed to Scotland Yard?” I asked. “Is this related to the dead Ambassador or to the dead tramp?”
“The latter, though I have assured Lestrade that once I have satisfied my curiosity, I will turn my full attention to his poisoned diplomat. He has agreed to have the coroner make a thorough examination of the drowned man – he is not, I believe, a tramp – with particular emphasis on certain areas identified by me. I hope his findings will provide us with a starting point for our investigation. If,” he concluded, “you would be willing to assist me for a day or two?”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Holmes,” I said. “And I must confess I am intrigued; save for the bruise on his back, the corpse appeared devoid of possible interest.”
Holmes’s deep laugh was the best indication yet that his mood was greatly restored. “There is always something to be discovered, Watson. Surely you know that by now? But we are here now, so let us see what Dr. Booth’s report has to offer.”
* * *
We sat before Inspector Lestrade’s desk while Holmes read the report. Finally, he tapped it with the back of his fingers.
“This is excellent work, Lestrade,” Holmes remarked appreciatively, as he laid the report back on the desk before him. “Dr. Booth may be a lax timekeeper, but he is a more than competent coroner. There were three areas I asked him to check,” he went on, turning to me. “First, to confirm the existence of several distinct bruises on the dead man’s shoulder. You will recall I mentioned the possibility in the mortuary, but the light was too poor to be certain. Booth confirms three such bruises in total, all on or around the left shoulder. Secondly, to make a judgement as to whether the bruising on the corpse’s back was caused by a sudden blow. He agrees with me that the bruise was caused by extreme and concerted pressure. Finally, I observed dilation of the venous blood vessels of the eye, as one might expect with a drowning victim, and some dirt residue in the nostrils. The latter was too tightly compacted for me to extract, but Dr. Booth has done so, and has confirmed that it is common river silt, though containing certain chemical traces.”
Lestrade was plainly unimpressed. “A drowned man swallowed some Thames mud, Mr. Holmes? I could have told you that!”
“And could you also have told me where along the Thames that mud originated?” Holmes asked. “Can you do a chemical analysis by simple observation, Inspector?” Lestrade glowered but said nothing, allowing Holmes to continue. “No? How disappointing. Fortunately, however, Dr. Booth did supply such detail. I am confident that once I have examined the river tides and worked backwards from the spot at which our drowned man was pulled from the river, I should be in a position to identify, to within half a mile at most, his starting point.”
Lestrade forced a cough. “Very well, Mr. Holmes,” he said after a moment. “But you will bear in mind that you have promised to give me your thoughts on the Ambassador’s murder as soon as possible? Not,” he hurried to clarify, “that Scotland Yard will stand still in your absence. It may well be that we have the murderer in irons by the time you become involved.”
In reply, Holmes rose to his feet and reached for his hat and gloves. “Of course, Inspector. I am certain that there will be little which I contribute which you and your men have not already considered, but what I can, I shall
. As soon as I have satisfied my curiosity regarding this unfortunate drowning.” He held open the office door for me. “We should be on our way, Watson. A brief visit to Baker Street to look up river tides, and then a brisk walk alongside the water, if you are amenable?”
I signalled my agreement with a smile, delighted to be working with Holmes once again, and pushing my reservations about the usefulness of this particular enquiry to the back of my mind. The benefits to Holmes were unmistakable, after all, and that was really all that mattered. I walked down the corridors of Scotland Yard with Holmes a step behind, feeling much more positive than I had when rising that morning.
* * *
Holmes was as good as his word. We were in Baker Street for no more than half an hour, while he studied a thin brown volume, then a map of the Thames, which he spread across the table.
“The dead man was pulled from the water beyond the docks at Wapping,” he explained, circling the spot on the map with a pencil. “Factoring in the river tides, he must have floated there via the entrance to St Katharine Docks or arrived there having made his way from further directly upstream, somewhere in this area here.” He consulted his book of tides and drew a thick line along the river course. “Dr. Booth was unable to ascertain the exact time of death so we cannot say how long the body was in the water. And due to the heavy rainfall swelling the river, it is even more difficult than usual to pinpoint his starting place from the tides alone. However, if we combine our knowledge of the factories which line the Thames along that stretch with the chemicals identified by Dr. Booth, we should be able to… aha!”
He stabbed his finger down on the map, covering part of the river he had already marked in pencil. “Heavy concentrations of cadmium and zinc suggest a stretch of riverbank in relatively close proximity with a steelworks, while the presence of arsenic in small but measurable quantities indicates either a small glass manufacturer, or a larger one further upstream than the steel factory. This area here is the only one which matches those requirements.” He folded up the map with a frown on his face. “Of course, that still leaves us a section of the river over a mile long and no way that I can see to further narrow that area. But there is nothing so fine as a riverside walk, is there, Watson?”
* * *
The hansom that took us down to the Thames deposited us in a part of London which was as poor as any in the city. Desolate streets lined with crumbling buildings ran down close to the riverside, or criss-crossed one another in a seemingly endless warren of dirt and decay and desperation. Now and again, as we followed the route of the water, we were forced by an obstacle in our path to leave the main road and pass directly along such streets. Even in broad daylight they were poorly lit and littered with heaps of refuse, through which scrawny dogs and thin, pale children ran. A group of men, standing smoking on the street corner, turned and stared at us as we walked by. I was glad when we cut down an alleyway and returned to the comparative civilisation of the main road along the river’s edge.
It was a cold day, with a dampness in the air that contrived to cover my overcoat in a fine white hoar. I struggled to maintain a grip on my umbrella against the biting wind coming off the river and wondered for the tenth time why we were not currently in front of the fire in Baker Street with our pipes.
Holmes, however, strode ahead of me, seemingly immune to the weather, and peered down at the flat expanse of mud below us wherever possible. I watched him as he leaned precariously far over fences and ragged hedgerows and wondered anew at the peculiar character of my friend, who could be so sullen and uninterested in the world one moment then, when presented with a suitable case, so suddenly filled with enthusiasm.
Even in the face of such a welcome rekindling of the healthier side of his nature, however, I was on the verge of suggesting that we admit defeat for the day, when Holmes – who had hoisted himself onto some rusty railings in order to gain a better vantage point – gave a grunt of satisfaction.
“I believe we have found the spot where our victim met his end, Watson!”
He jumped down and squeezed himself between two bowed railings, then half-trotted, half-tumbled down a muddy path which had been worn into the surrounding carpet of weeds and thistles and which led down to the Thames’ shore. Silently cursing the damp and the cold, I manoeuvred my way through the iron bars and cautiously made my way down the hillside in his wake.
The reason for Holmes’s excitement – if not the actual explanation of it – was evident the second I cleared the abandoned storehouse at the bottom of the hill and was able to make out the adjacent mudflats. Whereas until that point I had seen only an occasional and solitary figure in the distance, an isolated speck of black against a backdrop of muted browns and tans, the area that opened before me was a veritable hive of humanity.
There must have been two dozen children of varying ages in a space no more than sixty feet by twenty, and as I edged along the scrubby grass verge a few feet behind Holmes, I felt my stomach tighten in a miserable peristalsis. The children’s clothes were tattered and filthy. All were barefoot. Indeed, footwear would have served no purpose in that place. For each of these unfortunates continually trod a series of uneven shapes through the cloying mud, which sucked at their legs and coated them beyond the knee with its sticky embrace. The wind bit at their exposed arms and legs and the moisture in the air, formed by the drizzle and the spray from the river, coated their clothing.
As I watched, a girl of ten or so came to a sudden stop not far from me. She bent double at the waist and thrust her skinny arms to the shoulder into the mud at her feet, then dragged them back out, with a tiny fragment of wood clasped in one hand, for all the world like a heron ducking its head into river water in pursuit of fish. I watched, dumbfounded, as she tucked her small prize into a linen pouch that hung down inside the top of her ragged skirt, then continued her slog through the mud. All around her, other children did the same, their dull, blank faces bent towards the ground. I have never considered myself a particularly poetic man, but a line from the Italian poet Dante came unbidden to my mind – ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here’ – and I shuddered.
“Scavengers,” Holmes said quietly, as though reading my mind. “With their feet, they feel the bottom of the mud where it becomes solid and seek out pieces of wood, or carpenter’s nails; any of the flotsam fallen from the boats which lay up near this section of the Thames.”
“Is that why so many congregate here?” I asked, pushing the thought of such a life to the back of my mind, to the extent that I was able. London was a city of great poverty as well as great wealth, and I was not such a hypocrite as to pretend that I had only just realised that fact. But I cannot deny that the hellish scene laid out before me jolted me a little in my complacency. Looking back later, I think it was at that moment that I began to appreciate the worth in investigating the death of the nameless vagabond from the mortuary.
In response to my question, Holmes shouted across to a nearby youngster and, by dint of a penny held between his fingers, inveigled the boy to approach us.
“No, Watson, I do not believe so,” Holmes said. “Something has happened here to bring so great a number to this place, like rooks descending on the corpse of a fox in an otherwise unremarkable field.”
“Whatcha want, mister?” The boy had come to a halt six feet away from the edge of the mud. He was stunted and thin, his face chapped and red in the bitter wind. He spoke in a low, guttural tone and would come no closer, seeming to view the stretch of mud which separated us from him as a protection. Holmes flicked the coin towards him and he plucked it from the air and quickly hid it away in the pocket of his trousers, glancing around as he did so, to ensure that nobody had seen the transaction.
“Whatcha want then?” he asked again, but his voice was softer now, and more friendly.
Holmes smiled reassuringly. “Merely the answer to a question or two. My friend and I were passing and could not help but notice the crowd of people in this short stretch of riverb
ank. We wondered what has occasioned such an unusual concentration?”
The boy grinned, displaying a mouth full of undersized, uneven, brown teeth. “Treasure, mister,” he said. A sudden gust of freezing wind from the river caused his thin jacket to flap open – he had no shirt on beneath, I saw – and the grin was replaced by a frown as he shivered and crouched lower down in the mud, seeking whatever warmth it contained.
“Treasure?” Holmes repeated. “What sort of treasure?” He pulled a second penny from his waistcoat pocket and held it loosely in his hand.
“A gold ring, I heard,” the boy replied eagerly. “Worth five pounds if it was worth a penny, and found just lying in the mud. That’s what I ’eard, anyway. Sir,” he added, eyeing the coin in Holmes’s hand greedily.
“Just lying in the mud, you say,” my friend replied, giving no indication that he was even aware of the penny he held. “Where exactly in the mud?”
The youngster shrugged. “Dunno that. Near ’ere, must be, or why’d everyone be looking about?”
“That would seem logical,” Holmes agreed with a small smile. “But do you perhaps know who found this ring?”
“Dunno that either.” The concern in his voice was unmistakable. Clearly, he felt his reward was slipping away from him. He frowned and began to say, “Could be that…” when Holmes tossed the coin to him.
“No, please do not use your imagination. Better to have no facts than incorrect ones. You have been most helpful, thank you.”
He turned away, but the boy, evidently wishing to provide as full a service as he could for his payment – and perhaps hoping there would be more – had one more thing to say.
“It could only have come out the sewer, though. The ring, that is. Stands to reason it come from there. How else is a gold ring going to end up down ’ere?”
Sherlock Holmes Page 2
