Lestrade, at least, had some inkling of whom Holmes was speaking, and he was not best pleased. ‘The Lord of—! You can’t possibly be serious, Mr Holmes!’ He glanced at me in appeal, but with no knowledge of this oddly named figure I could only shrug and ask him for an explanation.
‘The Lord of Strange Deaths is a savage, one of the most dangerous people in London, Dr Watson,’ the Inspector replied. ‘He’s the leader of the Chinese underworld, for one thing, and strongly believed to be responsible for the murders of as many as ten British agents back in China.’ He rounded on Holmes. ‘I strongly recommend you stay away from him, Mr Holmes. The most treacherous Chinaman on this side of the Great Wall, they call him, and they’re not wrong!’
Such was Lestrade’s strength of feeling with regard to this criminal mastermind that he was all but shouting. His face was red and flushed as he punctuated each sentence with a wind-milling arm and a pointed finger. For his part, Holmes remained utterly calm and ignored Lestrade altogether. Instead, he bade Mr Noble good day and, making his way back into the street outside, cast around for a cab. ‘Would you care to take a trip, Watson?’ he asked as he signalled to a passing hansom.
Short of leaving him to continue the investigation alone, there was nothing I could do but reply in the affirmative. As I pulled myself up into the cab, and looked back at Lestrade’s still-scarlet face, I hoped that this was not a grave mistake.
Six
To enter Limehouse is to step into another world.
This was not my first visit to that most insalubrious area, but even so I was surprised and revolted afresh by the horrors which surrounded us as our cab made its way along the side of the Thames, then turned into the lee of a boarded-up and abandoned building, and there stopped.
We had been prepared for this, and Holmes merely shrugged as I opened the cab door and carefully stepped out. The hansom driver had made it clear that he would take us to the outskirts of the area, but no further. We would have to walk from this point on.
I knew that many thousands of people made their permanent home in the slum terraces which took up a large proportion of the interior of the district, but here on the fringes, where the river met the city streets, the buildings were of a more commercial aspect. Disreputable lodging-houses and uninviting beer shops alternated with timber yards, shipping offices, and tiny open-fronted workshops.
The proximity of the docks means that the streets of Limehouse are always crowded. Sailors of every nationality mixed with the mass of natives, or sat, slumped in the street, befuddled with drink or opium. Unfortunate women congregated at corners, and smiled toothlessly at any passer-by who looked to have a few coins to spend, while their unemployed menfolk fought and cursed at one another outside the dingy public houses, which dominated the streets away from the riverfront.
I would have felt more comfortable with my revolver, but Holmes had warned me not to bring it with me. ‘The Lord of Strange Deaths might take that amiss, Watson,’ he had said, and though his tone was light, the tense look that crossed his face told another, more serious tale.
‘Just who is he, Holmes? Lestrade may not be a master detective by your lights, but neither is he a fool. Could this Lord of Strange Deaths not be the mastermind behind everything that has occurred so far?’
‘Lestrade is a dullard, Watson. A prattling child of little wit but much noise, whose most useful trait is to serve as a barometer by which more intelligent men may judge what is most incorrect or wrong-headed.
‘As for the Lord of Strange Deaths… yes, he is a dangerous man, and yes, he controls the Chinese in London with a rod of iron. He has ordered more men killed than any other man in the city, including the ten British agents Lestrade mentioned – and more, I shouldn’t wonder – but for all that, he is a man with a very personal code of honour, which he will break for nothing. Lestrade is too simple a soul to understand that, I fear.
‘More specifically, the Lord would consider any activity which took place purely in pursuit of material gain as reprehensible. He is akin to an Oriental version of my brother, Mycroft, you see, Watson. His every waking moment is spent working for the benefit of his own country, and while he would not hesitate to steal, cheat and murder if there were advantage to be gained for China, neither stolen paintings nor treasure would tempt him, I assure you. He is a political creature alone and would sooner cut his own throat than dishonour himself by scrabbling for mere wealth.
‘No, we need not worry about the Lord of Strange Deaths today, though it would be wise always to fear him just a little on general grounds.’
I cannot say I felt completely mollified by Holmes’s words, but any immediate fear that we were walking into a trap dissipated a little. ‘So, what now, Holmes?’ I asked. ‘Where do we go next?’
Holmes said nothing, but pointed across the street. A figure detached itself from the shadow of a building and walked towards us slowly. He stopped directly in front of us, so close that I could have touched his face without extending my arm, and bowed from the waist. I was unsurprised to see he was an Oriental. He murmured, ‘Follow me,’ and without waiting for a response, walked into the heart of Limehouse.
* * *
Some twenty minutes later, we found ourselves following our guide along a dark and fetid alleyway, where indistinct shapes moaned in the shadows and women of the vilest sort beckoned from open doorways. Though it was only early afternoon, a combination of the season, the ever-present fog and the manner in which the buildings around us leaned in on one another at their topmost extremities meant that we walked in an artificial twilight, which perversely magnified every horror, while at the same time rendering everything about us indistinct and grey. At one point, a large rat boldly ran across the top of my boot until I instinctively flicked it away in disgust. I turned to Holmes to protest, but he held a long finger to his lips and gave a tiny shake of his head. He at least had some idea of where we were going and who we should meet there, and clearly thought the journey worthwhile.
Just as I had resigned myself to tramping through unlit streets forever, we passed round a bend and a soft yellow light appeared in an opening ahead. Our guide beckoned that we should follow him and quickly moved forward into this opening, which turned out to be an archway leading to the river’s edge. A smattering of gaslights illuminated the top of a set of stone steps directly in front of us, down which the little Chinaman clambered, with Holmes and I hard on his heels.
At the bottom of these steps a wide path stretched into the darkness, with the river on one side and a row of derelict buildings on the other. It was part of the peculiar flavour of the area that each of these edifices was raised into the air by pillars, on which the buildings themselves were balanced. The idea was, presumably, to avoid flooding when the Thames was high. A tall ladder at the front of each building provided access to a form of porch, beyond which was a more conventional front door. To move between buildings, however, required descending one ladder and then ascending the next, there being no aerial path connecting any two structures.
I gave a start as a pile of dirty rags lying at the base of one ladder stirred and was revealed to be a sleeping beggar. Holmes glanced down with a thoughtful expression on his face, but gave no other indication of interest. Instead, he lightly touched my arm and gestured at our guide, who stood, unmoving, before us.
In his hands he held a pair of blindfolds. He handed one to each of us and mimed our putting them over our eyes, which we did, though not without trepidation, on my part at least. An unfamiliar hand on my shoulder and a guttural ‘Move now!’ in my ear did little to assuage my concerns, but nonetheless I responded to a firm push against my shoulder and shuffled hesitantly forward.
I could not say how long we walked or whether we followed a single path; perhaps we doubled or even trebled back on ourselves, but I counted my steps until I reached two thousand, at which point I recognised the pointlessness of the exercise and ceased. What I can say is that when the hand on my shoulder pressed
down and the same guttural voice said ‘Stop now,’ I was tired both of walking and of the ever-present stench of decay which permeated the area. The thought that we had only a ladder to climb in order to reach our destination was a relief. I hauled myself upwards, aware that Holmes preceded me by the sound of his breathing above me. Once at the summit, unseen hands reached up and removed my blindfold, and I took a moment to examine my surroundings.
Holmes was standing just inside an open doorway, his eyes flicking quickly from one side to the other as his exceptional brain filed away details that might later turn out to be vital to our understanding of the case – or at least I hoped so. Over his shoulder I could make out a long, dimly lit room, with small square windows spaced out along each wall, and crowds of silent people standing on either side of a carpeted central aisle. It was impossible to make out much of the décor in the room, even after our guide had prodded us inside, for a sweet-smelling smoke pervaded the space and hung in soft clouds from the ceiling, tinting everything it touched a dirty yellowish-brown. I had spent enough time in Afghanistan to recognise the sickly odour of opium.
A nudge in the back from a large, grim-faced Chinese propelled me forward. Perhaps it was the effects of the drug hanging in the air, or maybe it was simple tiredness, but as I followed Holmes down the length of the room, I could have sworn that I heard a voice behind me quietly exclaim ‘Sherlock Holmes!’ I tried to turn to see who had spoken, but my granite-faced guard gave me a hearty shove that all but sent me crashing into Holmes’s back and it was all I could do to remain upright.
By the time I had completely regained my balance, we were approaching the end of the room. Directly in front of us stood an ornately carved oak chair, decorated with arcane symbols and glittering gemstones, and framed by two antique swords, which curved above and around it. Other ancient weaponry hung from the walls. I heard Holmes give the smallest of sighs as a curtain to one side was twitched open and an elderly Chinese man in traditional costume shuffled painfully forward. To my English eyes, the man appeared the very exemplar of the mysterious Oriental, with thin, dark eyes, long, sharp fingernails and a white moustache that reached down past his chin. As he settled himself, two giant guards took up position on either side of him, glaring down at Holmes and myself with implacable hostility.
Holmes, at least, felt confident enough to speak. He took a step forward and gave a low bow, causing a general stiffening amongst our captors. Both of the old man’s guards laid a hand on the curved sword at his waist, and around us a rumble of discontent was plainly audible, but Holmes was utterly unfazed. He simply stood, a little in front of me and within touching distance of the Chinese leader, until that luminary waved a languid hand in the air and, to my great relief, everyone relaxed.
‘Great Lord,’ said Holmes unexpectedly, ‘I come to ask a single question, which I believe it would be in both our interests for you to answer. Last evening, a gentleman of Oriental aspect attempted to return a missing painting to the Gallery from which it was stolen. Given your… management… of your people in London, I wondered if perhaps you had knowledge of this man?’
I admit that I feared at first that the elderly Chinese was in some distress. As Holmes fell silent, he let out a choking, wheezing sound, as though in the worst stages of an asthmatic attack, and thumped one hand on the arm of his chair. I glanced over at Holmes and was reassured to see a slight smile evident on his lips.
‘You find the question amusing?’ he asked.
As suddenly as it had begun, the wheezing laughter stopped. The old man beckoned to one of his guards, who bent down and listened to his master’s whispered commands.
‘The Lord of Strange Deaths asks what crime has been committed if the item has been returned.’
‘Even a theft reconsidered remains a theft, my Lord.’
The old man nodded to himself, and rubbed the palms of his hands together as he considered Holmes’s remark. He conversed again with his bodyguard, then sat back in his chair as the giant turned to Holmes.
‘The Lord of Strange Deaths asks why you do not speak to this criminal of his motivations, rather than coming to his own humble dwelling place. The Lord knows nothing of paintings.’
I was certain from the look on Holmes’s face that this was not the response he had expected. ‘The man is dead,’ he said finally. ‘Poisoned by his own hand, in fact.’
At this, the old man gave out a harsh bark, though whether of surprise or amusement I could not say. He clapped his hands loudly together, and in response the nearest guard bowed low while the Lord whispered in his ear, then turned and spoke to several nearby figures, who detached themselves from the crowd and ran from the room. I glanced at Holmes, who signalled with the slightest shake of his head that all we could do was wait. Ten minutes passed in this manner, with Holmes and I standing silently before the Lord of Strange Deaths, who appeared to be asleep.
The silence was finally broken by a sound behind us, as the men returned and made whispered reports to the Lord. Once complete, he waved them away, then clapped his thin hands once more. Before the sound had finished echoing around the long room, a door I had failed to observe earlier opened in the wall to our right, and three men entered, carrying between them a large wicker basket, which they placed on the floor in front of the Lord of Strange Deaths. Each man then bowed low and left without a word, closing the door silently behind them.
Holmes indicated the basket. ‘May I?’ he asked. In reply, our host crooked a finger in our direction, inviting us to approach. I made to follow Holmes as he stepped forward, but a soft ‘Not this time, Watson,’ caused me to come to a halt, so that I was unable to see inside the basket as Holmes carefully lifted the lid.
Whatever hellish sight Holmes exposed within, it was enough to make him recoil violently and hurriedly thrust the lid back atop the basket. Though I knew he was in no way a squeamish man, Holmes’s face had paled noticeably, and I, who knew him so well, could tell that his voice was not entirely steady when next he spoke.
‘What is this—?’ he managed to say before the Lord of Strange Deaths beckoned him to approach, in order that he might murmur directly into my friend’s ear.
No sooner had he done so – and Holmes had stepped back with a look of pure revulsion etched on his face – than the elderly Lord took his leave, shuffling back through the curtains while the same guide who had led us to this place silently held blindfolds out to Holmes and me.
* * *
Holmes would not be drawn into conversation in the cab back to Baker Street. His face remained strained and sombre through the entire journey, his eyes staring blankly ahead, blinking only occasionally and slowly. Whatever had been in the basket, it had affected him greatly.
When we arrived home, he headed straight upstairs, leaving me to pay the fare. I followed a minute or so behind, to discover him already slumped in his chair, with a pipe about to be lit. He sat and smoked the entire pipe in silence, and I sat opposite him, smoking a cigarette and watching him from the corner of my eye.
Finally, he laid his pipe aside. He ran a hand through his hair and gave out a heavy sigh, like a man coming to a painful, but unavoidable, decision.
‘“England’s Treasure”, Watson,’ he said, in the end. ‘That name crops up again, and I begin to wonder if I have not perhaps made an error of judgement in ignoring it thus far.’
‘Is that what the Lord of Strange Deaths said?’ I asked.
He closed his eyes but remained silent. Fearing that he would lapse back into silent contemplation, I quickly asked the question uppermost in my mind since leaving Limehouse.
‘What was in the basket, Holmes?’
His eyes flicked open again. He stared at me, unblinking, for several heartbeats before speaking. ‘That is as unpleasant a sight as I have encountered in many a long year, Watson. It is one that I suspect you will not care to describe to your readers in The Strand, my friend, even if that august periodical agreed to print the details.
‘I
am certain that it comes as no surprise to you to learn that the Lord of Strange Deaths is a cruel man in most respects – but as I said earlier, he is also an honourable one, by his own lights. He told me that the dead man once worked for him – and by extension for China – but had recently defected, exchanging his proper employment as a spy for that of a common thief. This defection the Lord views as a gross betrayal of his country.’
He rested his neck against the back of his chair and stared up at the ceiling. ‘The basket contained the punishment for that betrayal. Three heads, very recently cut from their respective bodies. A young woman, an older woman and an elderly man. The defector’s wife, mother and father, according to the Lord of Strange Deaths.
‘“In China,” he whispered to me, “they say that treason and corpse are brothers, and thus a relative must also pay the price of treachery. We have sought the man you describe, in order to punish him, but if he has escaped justice, it is fitting that his family take his place.”’
There was nothing to be said in the face of such barbarity, and so we sat in silence for at least half an hour, as the light outside turned from a dark grey to a bluish-black, and fog descended and hung in dense clouds around the chimney pots on the roofs opposite. I crossed to the window and pulled it shut. As though reacting to a signal, Holmes sat upright as I resumed my seat, smoothed his hair down and, in as normal a voice as I could have hoped for, asked whether I wished to hear the remainder of his story.
‘The Lord of Strange Deaths had one more thing to say to me. The dead man, he said, had pledged his loyalty to a new villain, one Lestrade mentioned a few days ago. The Albino seeks a treasure beyond price, according to the Lord of Strange Deaths, something that would make its owner the richest man in England, perhaps even the entire Empire. “Find England’s Treasure,” he said, “before it falls into the hands of this Albino. He is not an honourable man.”’
Albino's Treasure Page 7
