“Good Lord, man, look at you,” said Holmes as he ushered me into the sitting-room. “What a sight. Been in the wars, have we? Or,” he added somewhat more soberly, “a bomb explosion at Waterloo Station by any chance?”
“Then you already know about that?” I said.
“I heard the detonation and was able to deduce its location based on the volume of the sound and the direction it came from, namely south-east, just across the river. The likeliest venue, the place where a terrorist bomb would cause the most disruption and loss of life, would be a frequented and crowded spot, such as a railway station at the peak hour of busyness. Waterloo lies more or less due south-east of here. That seemed to fit the criteria. My supposition was corroborated not long afterwards, as word began to spread and I overheard someone in the street gossiping loudly about the incident. Final confirmation arrived just moments ago in the form of a telegram from my brother Mycroft.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “A bad business, my friend, a very bad business indeed. And how terrible that you had the misfortune to be caught up in the blast.”
“I hardly need ask how you know I was there.”
“It is perfectly plain. Even if you were not so clearly distressed and your hands and clothing did not bear the marks that they do, it would have been apparent to me where you had been this afternoon. You are dressed for travel, and there’s a copy of Bradshaw just protruding from the pocket of your topcoat, its yellow wrapper binding unmistakable. I am aware that you have been making day trips recently to visit your wife in Ramsgate, the line from which terminates at Waterloo. She is improving, by the way?”
I nodded. I had not vouchsafed to Holmes the real reason for Mary’s sojourn on the coast, stating merely that she had been unwell and that the bracing sea air would aid her recuperation. I suspect he had a pretty shrewd idea of the truth but he had the good grace not to let on.
“Excellent,” said he. “So the deduction was child’s play itself. I must say I’m glad that you managed to escape unscathed.”
“Unscathed?” I said, lowering myself into an armchair. “Physically, maybe.”
“A brandy,” Holmes declared. “And perhaps some soap and a basin of hot water, so that you may clean yourself up. Mrs Hudson!”
A snifter of brandy went some way to restoring my equilibrium, and it was a relief to wash off the blood and all that it signified.
“I did what I could for the victims,” I told Holmes, drying my hands, “but it felt like far too little.”
“I’m quite certain you acquitted yourself with honour,” said Holmes.
“Who do you think is behind this beastly bombing campaign? Is it Fenians, as some of the papers say? Anarchists? Opponents of the monarchy?”
“Hmmm.” Holmes had not really paid attention to my questioning. With fingers pressed to lips, he was contemplating some other matter. “Tell me, Watson, what did you make of our recent guest?”
“Guest? You mean the delivery boy?”
“Indeed.”
“I do not see how he can be of more consequence than the bombings.”
“Humour me.”
“Well, if you insist,” said I. I was well accustomed to my friend’s sometimes impenetrable thought processes and the way the locus of his interest could shift sharply and unexpectedly from one matter to another. “Do you wish me to apply your own deductive methods?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then, first of all, I think it queer that he was permitted to enter the house. Could Mrs Hudson have not signed for the telegram at the door, as is customary?”
“I told you the message was from Mycroft,” said Holmes. “It was an important one, and the delivery boy insisted that it must be placed directly in the hands of the named recipient.”
“Odd,” I said.
“Singular,” said Holmes, “but I can see the reasoning, and he was adamant about it. In the end, Mrs Hudson had no choice but to relent and allow him in, even though she is under strict instruction not to disturb me unless it is to bring up a client. What else about him did you notice?”
“I don’t know if ‘notice’ is the word, but one’s eye couldn’t avoid being drawn to that face of his. Terribly badly burned. A house fire perhaps?”
“You are guessing.”
“My powers of observation are not the equal of yours,” I replied with some asperity. “We all know that. No one’s are. In the absence of any further evidence, all I can suggest is that the man was unfortunate enough to have had his face destroyed by fire. The nature and extent of the scar tissue allows for no other conclusion. That he is an adult in a job usually reserved for boys leads me to assume –”
“Never assume!” Holmes rebuked me.
“Leads me to infer, then, that he has been unable to find any other form of gainful employment; no doubt as a consequence of his looks”
“In that respect, I am sure you are on the right track, Watson. Nobody, looking at him, could think otherwise than that his repugnant appearance has barred him from most lines of work and obliged him to accept a low-paid, menial position of the type usually offered to someone far junior”
“I get the impression that you know better.”
“No, no,” said my companion airily. “Not necessarily.”
“But there’s more to him than meets the eye.”
“Sometimes a man is exactly what he seems, no more, no less.” Whatever Holmes had hoped to gain by taxing me about the deliverer of the telegram, he had evidently pursued the issue to his satisfaction, for he changed the subject – or rather, reverted to the topic I had originally broached. “It is, of course, about the bombings that Mycroft wishes to see me.”
“The telegram was a summons, I take it.”
“Very much so. An urgent one.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” said I, rising. “We must leave for the Diogenes Club at once.” I consulted the pocket-watch which had been bequeathed me by my not long deceased and sadly rather wayward eldest brother. “It is past a quarter to five and still just shy of twenty to eight, so if we hurry, we will undoubtedly catch him there.”
“And I would be delighted for you to accompany me, Watson. On condition that you are quite recovered from your ordeal...”
In truth, I was still not feeling fully myself. However, a call to arms could not go unheeded, especially one that related to a disaster which had ended so many lives and nearly accounted for my own as well. The sooner we got onto the culprits’ trail, the nearer we would be to bringing them to book.
As we headed downstairs, I said, “Is the game afoot, Holmes?”
My friend grinned wolfishly over his shoulder.
“In so many ways, Watson. In so very many ways.”
CHAPTER THREE
A STUDY IN CONTRASTS
A hansom took us to Pall Mall, and on the way we saw around us a London in ferment. The third and deadliest yet of the bomb attacks had made the headlines of the late editions of the papers. On every other street corner people gathered to hear someone read the relevant article aloud, and cries of shock and groans of dismay greeted almost every sentence. Several times there were loud and angry denunciations of the Irish and their desire for independence and home rule, since Fenians seemed the likeliest perpetrators of these barbaric acts. They had had some form in that department since the Rising in 1867 and the Dynamite Campaign of the early eighties. I regretted my fellow countrymen’s readiness to condemn an entire nation for the deeds of a single political faction, and moreover without proof or verification. Nonetheless I harboured the same suspicions and felt the same burning need to find someone to blame, perhaps even more strongly than the average person did owing to my first-hand experience of the effects of the Waterloo Station bomb blast.
Once we were inside the Diogenes Club, however, it was as though such concerns simply did not exist. The denizens of that august institution sat ensconced in armchairs, smoking, drinking, perusing books and periodicals, or gazing softly into the middle distance, seem
ingly without a care in the world. The club’s thick walls and cherished traditions appeared to have an insulating effect, cutting its members off from all external troubles.
Of course, even if these gentlemen had wished to discuss the current situation, they would have been forbidden from doing so by the club’s principal and strictest rule. All conversation – even the smallest of small talk – was banned on the premises, on pain of permanent exclusion. The only place where one might utter a word was the Stranger’s Room, whither Holmes and I were ushered by a suitably muted attendant.
Holmes’s brother awaited us there, and the pair fell to talking immediately, without preamble or greeting, as was their wont. I never failed to be amazed by the difference between them – the corpulent and well-connected Mycroft, the wiry and antisocial Sherlock. It seemed almost inconceivable that two such dissimilar creatures could have sprung from the same set of loins. The sole feature this study in contrasts shared was a prodigious, voracious intelligence.
“First a restaurant on Cheapside, then the bandstand at Regent’s Park,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Now this. It is quite baffling. I cannot fathom any pattern to the attacks. They have taken place at differing hours of the day, in a variety of locations, with no common target other than civilians, bystanders. There is no apparent logic, no obvious motive other than to kill and maim blindly.”
“Sometimes that alone is enough,” said the junior of the two Holmeses. “Madmen need no rationale for their deeds beyond the perverted satisfaction of seeing others hurt.”
“You think this is the work of madmen, Sherlock?”
“It is one theory. The alternative is that it is the work of sane, highly calculating individuals who wish to be seen to be mad. The apparent randomness of the bombings is, in that sense, a pattern of its own. We are meant to think there is no order behind it, and the locations have been carefully selected to reinforce that impression.”
“Fiendish,” said Mycroft. “So our foes want us to underestimate them.”
“Maybe. What is clear is that the attacks are escalating in audacity and severity. The number of dead at the Cheapside restaurant was three, was it not? And at Regent’s Park a dozen. And today...?”
“The death toll stands at thirty-one, with a further six not likely to survive the night, according to my sources.”
I felt a stab of sorrow and regret, wondering how many of those six I had ministered to at the station. Possibly all of them.
“There is a special session of parliament scheduled for later this evening,” Mycroft Holmes continued. “The bombings will be urgently debated. It’s fair to say, however, that not much will be achieved. With scant evidence available, the Prime Minister can only make vague threats against nameless culprits and promise some form of retribution – platitudes to reassure the masses. There will be plenty of indignation and hot air in the House but precious little concrete policy.”
“And Her Majesty?” said Holmes. Mycroft – it can be revealed here, although it was never a matter of official record – was a frequent habitué of Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle. Those were almost the only two places he would deign to visit, beyond his rooms on Pall Mall and the Diogenes. I have it on good authority that he was even known by our monarch as her “second Albert”, but one daren’t speculate on the full implications of that.
“Affronted, alarmed, deeply concerned for the plight of her subjects,” Mycroft said. “What else would one expect? Her abiding fear is that, if the bombings continue, the result will be widespread civil unrest.”
“She has good cause to believe that. Watson and I witnessed considerable public agitation on the way here. Scared people are apt to take the law into their own hands and lash out at anyone they believe guilty.”
“Or,” I interjected, “they become a mob and turn on their leaders.”
“Quite so,” said Holmes. “I presume Special Branch are leaving no stone unturned.”
“Melville’s men are combing through the wreckage at Waterloo for clues even as we speak,” said Mycroft. “The bomb was planted in the gentlemen’s lavatories, of all places.”
“That at least tells us something about the bomber. He is male.”
“Though no gentleman,” said Mycroft with a curl of the lip. “Special Branch are also preparing to roust out potential suspects all across the capital. There hasn’t been a mobilisation of their forces like this since the Jubilee Plot back in eighty-seven. Known anarchists and Irish nationalists should sleep uneasy in their beds tonight, in anticipation of the 3.00am knock and the holding cell below Scotland Yard.”
“Then everything would appear to be in hand,” said his brother. “I can’t understand why you wished to consult me, Mycroft. My presence here seems superfluous in the extreme.”
I was startled by the brisk dismissiveness with which Holmes spoke, as though the unfolding crisis was of no significance to him.
Mycroft was similarly taken aback. For several seconds the older Holmes blinked at his seven-years-younger sibling.
Then he said, “I had thought, Sherlock, that you would be keen to see the bombers caught and a state of calm restored, and that this was a goal to which you would be willing to apply yourself. I realise now that I may have been mistaken. Is it a question of money? I’m sure I can raid the Treasury coffers, if it is. What’s the going rate for the services of the great sage of Baker Street?”
“You misunderstand,” said Holmes, untroubled by his brother’s broadside of sarcasm and scorn. “This is not the type of case I normally investigate. Far from it. The police have ample resources and manpower to deal with it.”
“Holmes, really!” I ejaculated, unable to contain myself. “I can scarcely credit what I’m hearing. Surely you can’t stand idly by while mass murderers rampage unchecked and the cohesion of our society is imperilled. This is not like you at all.”
“Your friend is right,” Mycroft chimed in. “How dare you shirk your patriotic duty, Sherlock. Granted, there is nothing glamorous here as there usually is in your cases. Nobody has been murdered inside a locked room. There are no exotic, deadly animals involved, no strange faces at windows, no Mitteleuropean monarchs or contested legacies. All the same, I would have thought that mere love of queen and country would persuade you to devote your energies to this problem, for all that it is outside your customary remit.” He made an effort to look humble and importunate. It did not come naturally to him. “I would regard it as a personal favour if you agreed to help, dear boy.”
“I never said that I wouldn’t help,” Holmes replied. “But the bombings themselves seem to me to be of secondary importance.”
“I beg your pardon? Secondary to what?”
“There is another phenomenon that has featured in the newspapers of late. It may not have made the front pages or consumed as many column inches, but it is a great deal more peculiar and, I am almost certain, has relevance to the matter under discussion.”
Mycroft Holmes cocked a bushy eyebrow. “Why do I have the feeling I’m not going to like what I’m about to hear?”
“Put it down to your general choleric disposition,” said his brother. “Or else dyspepsia from the devilled kidneys you had for lunch.”
“The devilled –? Oh, Sherlock, there is a time and place for these little parlour games you so enjoy, and this is not it.”
“Hardly a parlour game, brother. I was trying discreetly to draw your attention to the morsel of food adhering to your left lapel. Conceivably I could have been less subtle about it, but manners – and a concern for what others might think of you – would not permit me to overlook it altogether.”
Mycroft looked down at his ample front, located the offending fragment of his midday meal, and whisked it away with his handkerchief and a loud harrumph.
“But as we’re on the subject of your haberdashery,” Sherlock Holmes continued, “I see that your tailor has at last handed in his notice.”
Mycroft set his face in an expression that was both resi
gned and exasperated.
“Let me guess. The stitching on my trousers.”
Holmes nodded. “The waistband has been let out a couple of inches – again – but the quality of the workmanship isn’t up to the usual standard. You remain loyal to your outfitters, Messrs Reade and Whittle of Jermyn Street, because you have been their customer for over fifteen years and it would not be like you to change now, you being such a creature of habit. The elderly Mr Popplewell at that establishment was a particular genius with needle and thread, and any alterations he made to your clothing were always nigh on invisible. That it was apparent that your trousers had been altered at all indicated to me that Popplewell was not involved. At his advanced age, the likeliest explanation was that he has retired. Death was also a possibility, but I plumped for the less morbid of the two options. Besides, a master craftsman like him would have merited a mention in the Times obituary column, of which I am an avid reader, and I have seen none.”
The older Holmes heaved a testy sigh. “Yes, yes, all very ingenious, and I know how your deductive talents impress the police and the rest of the lower orders. But you forget that you are talking to a man every inch your mental equal, if not more so, and I am just not in the mood for such footling diversions today. Pray enlighten me about this ‘other phenomenon’ that you rank above the continued wellbeing of Britain and its imperial dependencies – even though I have a suspicion I already know what it is.”
“Baron Cauchemar,” said Holmes.
“Ha-ha!” His brother slapped his meaty hands together. “Yes. I thought as much. Once again your predilection for the bizarre and outré shows itself. Not for Sherlock Holmes something so mundane as a hunt for terrorists. Oh no. He would rather pursue a phantom, a will-o’-the-wisp, a fictitious figure to whose existence only the worst kind of sensationalist journalism gives credence.”
“Reports of Baron Cauchemar’s deeds are consistent and well corroborated. Sightings of him may have been few, but the eyewitnesses are nearly always reliable and every person describes him in the same way. He has even been spotted by two members of the constabulary, and their testimony cannot be called into question, can it?”
Sherlock Holmes - The Stuff of Nightmares Page 2
