by George Mann
“Both of you impersonating officers now, are you?”
Watson answered as Holmes smiled thinly. “Your desk sergeant was kind enough to accommodate us, Inspector.”
“I see,” I replied, making a mental note to reprimand the desk sergeant later. “So, are you here to gloat?” I asked, going to my desk drawer and the bottle of Lea Valley malt whisky I kept there for occasions such as this. Having poured my own, I offered both a cup but they declined.
“I prefer different vices, Inspector,” said Holmes.
“And it’s a little south of the yardarm for me,” added Watson.
“Please yourselves,” I said, taking a chair. “I hope you’re here with good news. I could use it.”
“Indeed, Lestrade,” said Holmes, “and I believe we have it.”
I sat up in my chair, my cup forgotten for the moment. “I’m listening.”
“It was the mask, Inspector, when I first began to form suspicions. The dead flesh of Jeremiah Goose staring through hollows instead of eyes, it kindled a theory I have been harbouring ever since we met Jacob Wainwright.” He struck up his pipe. “There can be no doubt that Wainwright is not our murderer, but I believe he knew him, and has done for several years.” Holmes then produced a sheath of papers from his jacket pocket that looked suspiciously like a police document and set it down before me.
“I took the liberty,” he said, “of having a look in the Scotland Yard archives and found something that piqued my interest.”
I looked down at the document, a sergeant’s record, the man declared dead several years ago.
“Has it ever occurred to you, Inspector,” said Holmes, “that our Peeler, who wears the flesh of dead men, might in fact be a dead man himself? At least,” he added, “according to his official police record.”
I read some of the details aloud. “Morris Duggen, killed in the line of duty, 6th June 1891.”
“His partner that fateful day was a Constable Jacob Wainwright,” said Holmes. “Both were involved in the foiling of a robbery at the Whitechapel branch of the London and Westminster Bank, which resulted in the deaths of several men, one of whom was Morris Duggen. This, Inspector,” said Holmes, “I garnered from my own extensive archives and from the scrap of material I recovered from Wainwright’s tannery.” He brandished it again. “A piece of artist’s canvas. It is difficult to discern, but a faint signature is just visible at the burnt edge. The Duchess, a lesser known but valuable piece, kept at the London and Westminster Bank on account of the previous owner’s unpaid debts. Its seizure was mildly scandalous at the time. All of which led me to recall a report of the robbery in The Times that named both the dead officer and one Barnabas Fenk, a former army man with moderate expertise in explosives. I say moderate because the explosives he used to breach the London and Westminster’s vault detonated prematurely and the aforementioned deaths occurred.”
I leaned back in my chair, availing myself of a warming sip of the malt. “Fascinating as all of this is, Holmes, what has this got to do with our skinner?”
“Barnabas Fenk spent some time in Alderbrook Workhouse where, no doubt, his path would have crossed with a certain porter.”
“Jeremiah Goose,” I said, setting my cup down again.
“Just so. I believe Mr Goose knew of, or was involved somehow in, the robbery of the London and Westminster. Several thousand pounds remain unaccounted for, as well as The Duchess, believed lost in the fire that broke out following Fenk’s botched incendiary device, the self-same blaze that crippled Wainwright and supposedly killed Morris Duggen.”
“Except Duggen survived,” I said, “and you think both he and Wainwright were somehow involved in this robbery? Duggen survives, escaping with the stolen monies, and Wainwright is honourably discharged. Fenk is dead, so there is no one left to contradict Wainwright’s story. Except Jeremiah Goose. But what about Duggen’s body? There’d need to be one if he was assumed dead.”
“Archibald Drew,” said Holmes. “Wainwright’s cousin, believed to have left London for brighter prospects elsewhere.”
“Archie,” I realised, nodding, “from Wainwright’s hammer. He took him on the robbery too.”
“Indeed. Wainwright was too frugal to discard a perfectly good stupa.”
“Drew’s body, all burned like that. Wainwright could have said it was anyone and make up any story to explain his absence.”
“And did so, Inspector.”
“Jeremiah Goose, he found out somehow,” I said. “And Duggen killed him for it, even took his face.”
“This is not a rational man we are dealing with, Inspector,” said Watson.
“But Lestrade is right,” added Holmes, “though I suspect Goose did more than merely threaten to expose Wainwright and Duggen for their crimes. I believe he stole some of their ill-gotten gains, and Duggen went looking for them.”
“The Alderbrook fire.”
Holmes nodded. “Enraged when he couldn’t find what he was looking for, I think he set the blaze to deny anyone else getting their hands on the money. Furthermore, unsettled by his recent encounter with the law, I believe Jacob Wainwright took steps to rid himself of any damning evidence in his possession, hence the fire at the tannery. The canvas and a sum of money that, at the least, would raise questions.”
“And Duggen killed him for it.”
Holmes nodded. “Judging by the condition in which we found the body, I believe he tortured Wainwright, who knew Goose, and found out about the lockbox.”
“The key,” I realised.
“Precisely, Inspector. Stitched into the lining of his jacket, which is why Duggen missed it.”
“He’s gone back there. To Alderbrook,” I realised, catching up to Holmes’s train of thought at last. “It’s empty on account of the fire, but he’d still need to wait until after dark. He’s still after the money.”
“Trusting to Goose’s lockbox to have protected it from the blaze,” said Holmes.
“He’s still there, he must be,” I said, grabbing my coat. “I’d wager my reputation on it.”
“A modest bet, Inspector,” said Holmes, “but a hansom cab awaits to take us.”
* * *
By the time we reached Lower Thames Street, the day had almost ended and night was creeping in. What scant light remained made a hollow of the old workhouse, burnt and blackened. Roof beams had become exposed to the elements, jutting outwards like rib bones. Rats and vagrants made their lair here now, and somewhere amongst them was Morris Duggen.
“Shouldn’t we wait for your men, Inspector?” asked Watson as we paused at the threshold. I had sent Cooper off to find Metcalfe and have him rouse as many constables as he could.
I shook my head. “I won’t risk him getting away again,” I said. “We’ll have to be enough to apprehend him.”
Holmes nodded, having drawn a pistol. Both Watson and I were also armed. “Then let’s be at it, gentlemen,” said Holmes, and we entered the ruins of Alderbrook. It was dark within, and we dared not risk any light for fear of alerting our quarry, so we made do with what little illumination penetrated from the outside.
The entrance hall was deserted, and I saw Watson move off to the right to look through a gutted doorway. He shook his head, indicating that the room beyond was empty. Holmes took the left as I pressed ahead to the stairs. It was then that we heard it: a faint scuffing against the wooden boards. It was coming from above.
“I don’t think he’ll be expecting us,” said Watson.
“Then let’s keep it that way, Doctor,” I replied and advanced up the stairs.
I led us on. As we ascended a stairway with a broken railing, I saw what looked like an office at the end of a long gallery and realised that this was where the scuffing sounds were coming from. Doors, some shut, some black and broken, led all the way down on one side. On the other, the railing continued, some of its balusters burnt down to little more than nubs.
Here in its upper reaches, Alderbrook was open to the sky, and
I felt the wind catch my overcoat and the rain against my face as I approached the office at the far end of the gallery. The door to the room was open, broken on its hinges, and I could see a shadow moving around within. As we got closer, I thought I saw it pause, only to continue whatever it was doing a moment later.
“Are you gentlemen ready?” I asked as we neared the open doorway. Both nodded and I stepped through, preparing to render unto Duggen the full justice of the law, but something struck my weapon, wrenching it from my hand before I could shoot.
A hand clamped around my wrist and I was yanked off my feet, into the office and against the facing wall. Pain tore through my shoulder as it bore the brunt of my fall, and I collapsed in a heap.
I saw Duggen. He glanced at me once, a snarl on his shapeless lips, and I beheld a face so monstrous I now knew why he chose to hide behind a dead man’s skin. He had a melted lockbox under one arm, a chisel in his hand, and he barrelled out of the room like a Smithfield bull.
I saw Watson raise his pistol but, upon seeing the horror of Duggen’s face, delayed his shot. The bullet struck Duggen in the same shoulder where I had clipped him before – even in the dismal half light, I saw the spurt of blood – but as before he barely slowed, barging Watson off his feet and sending him crashing through the blackened balustrade.
Holmes cried out, “Watson!” and there was a second shot.
I thought the doctor had been pitched over the edge to his certain death until I saw Holmes scrambling to grasp Watson’s wrist as he clung on perilously.
Duggen left them, limping now, and I realised Holmes must have clipped him before going to the doctor’s rescue.
I got to my feet, still groggy from being thrown across the room. Duggen had left a gaping hole in the floor from where he’d smashed through to claim the lockbox. I staggered to the doorway, remembering to retrieve my pistol.
“Holmes?” I asked, seeing him slowly wrenching Watson to safety. Duggen meanwhile was fleeing across the gallery.
“All is in hand here, Inspector,” Holmes assured me breathlessly. “To your duty.”
I went after Duggen and got halfway down the gallery when I held my pistol outstretched and declared, “Halt! In the name of the law, halt or I will shoot!” I wanted to kill this man for all the ills he had inflicted upon London, and most especially for the death of Constable Barrows, but I would have justice not revenge.
Duggen stopped. With his limp slowing him, we were but a few feet or so apart. I heard the floorboards, so ravaged by fire, creak ominously beneath us and knew I had to get him down quickly.
Then he turned.
A malformed face greeted me. Its flesh was raw and twisted, and reminded me of melted wax. He didn’t speak, and it occurred to me he might not possess the faculty to do so, given the severity of his scars. But instead of holding up his hands, he brandished the chisel and took a step towards me.
“Halt! I warn you, Duggen!”
Duggen kept going, limping towards me at a steady pace. I fired, or would have, but the pistol clicked deadeningly in my grasp and despite my frantic efforts I could not get it to shoot. Duggen grinned as he advanced on me, his red raw lips peeling back over his teeth. I drew my cosh, preparing to defend myself…
I felt the slightest tremor run through the wooden boards underfoot. Duggen felt it too and reached out to grasp the balustrade, dropping the chisel as his grotesque face contorted. I kicked the railing, hard enough to split it from its foundations. Duggen stumbled as the railing collapsed in his grasp. He teetered, one arm flailing, the other cradling the lockbox until at last pitching over the edge.
“Holmes?” I yelled.
“Here, Lestrade.”
“And the doctor?”
“Present, Inspector,” said Watson.
I carefully went over to the broken balustrade and looked over the edge. Morris Duggan lay broken on the floor below, his neck twisted at an awkward angle. The lockbox had split apart as it hit the ground and the stolen notes from the London and Westminster still fluttered in the wind before finally settling on the corpse.
“He’s dead,” I told them, and only then felt my hands begin to tremble. I sagged against a doorway as the shouts of Sergeant Metcalfe and my constables appeared below, and murmured gratefully, “the Peeler is dead.”
* * *
I saw little of Holmes and Watson after that night. After several days of gruelling police work, all of the flesh garments wrought by Duggen and sold by Wainwright were recovered and destroyed. Though it could not be proven, it was widely believed by those involved in this investigation that Morris Duggen had used the skin of several other men and women in his wretched flesh trade, but post mortem. Only the larcenous deeds of Jeremiah Goose had brought the killer out in him, though I suspect it would only have been a matter of time regardless. It turned out, Goose did know Wainwright, the latter owing gambling debts to the former and hence Goose’s desire for recompense that in the end led to his death.
The stolen money was returned to the London and Westminster, a modest sum, but it had been enough for Duggen to kill his partner. In the end, through perfidy and misadventure, both men were spared the noose, a fact that rankles me but also lets me sleep more soundly knowing they are dead.
London grinds on in their absence, though it has no shortage of monsters still and horrors to spare, I am sure.
About the Editor
George Mann is the author of the Sherlock Holmes: The Spirit Box, Sherlock Holmes: The Will of the Dead, the Newbury and Hobbes and The Ghost series of novels, as well as numerous short stories, novellas and audiobooks. He has written fiction and audio scripts for the BBC’s Doctor Who and Sherlock Holmes. He is also a respected anthologist and has edited Encounters of Sherlock Holmes, Further Encounters of Sherlock Holmes, The Solaris Book of New Science Fiction and The Solaris Book of New Fantasy. He lives near Grantham, UK.
About the Authors
Jonathan Barnes is the author of three novels: The Somnambulist, The Domino Men and Cannonbridge. He contributes regularly to the Times Literary Supplement and the Literary Review. He has written numerous audio dramas for Big Finish Productions, including a cycle of new Sherlock Holmes stories, starring Nicholas Briggs and Richard Earl.
Simon Bucher-Jones, like Mycroft, is a civil servant. Unlike Mycroft, he has permitted his well of intellect to be befouled with the creation of fiction. He’s written or co-written five novels relating to or spinning off from Doctor Who, two books of poetry, a cursed verse play, a novel concerning Dickens’ trip to Mars in 1842, and a steampunk version of A Christmas Carol. This is his first piece of Sherlockiana.
Kara Dennison is a writer, editor and illustrator born and bred by the Chesapeake Bay. A graduate of the College of William & Mary, Kara began her career as a journalist and localisation expert, serving as a feature writer for Otaku USA magazine, Crunchyroll News and others. Her work can be seen in the Obverse Books anthology The Perennial Miss Wildthyme, multiple volumes of the You and Who line, and the upcoming light novel series Owl’s Flower, illustrated by Ginger Hoesly. She lives with four guinea pigs, whom she occasionally upsets when she leaves home to serve as a host and interviewer at (Re)Generation Who, Intervention and other conventions in the eastern US.
Ian Edginton is a New York Times bestselling author and Eisner Award nominee. He is currently writing Batman ’66 meets The Avengers (Steed and Mrs Peel, not the other ones!) for DC Comics as well as Judge Dredd, Stickleback, Helium, Kingmaker and Brass Sun for 2000AD.
Other titles include such iconic characters as Wolverine, Batman and the X-Men. He has also worked on a number of film and television properties including Star Wars, Star Trek, Aliens, Predator, Terminator, and Planet of the Apes. In addition, he has written the audio adventures of Doctor Who: Shield of the Jotunn and Torchwood: Army of One.
He has adapted into graphic novels works by bestselling Young Adult novelists Robert Muchamore, Malorie Blackman and Anthony Horowitz as well as literary classics, Pri
de and Prejudice, The Picture of Dorian Gray, A Princess of Mars and the complete canon of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes novels. He has also written several volumes of Holmes apocrypha, The Victorian Undead, has adapted H.G. Wells’ The War of the Worlds and written several sequels, Scarlet Traces, Scarlet Traces: The Great Game and Scarlet Traces: Cold War.
He lives and works in Birmingham, England.
Lyndsay Faye is the internationally bestselling author of five novels. Her latest, Jane Steele, reimagines Jane Eyre as a heroic vigilante killer. The Gods of Gotham, the first book in the Timothy Wilde trilogy, was nominated for an Edgar Award for Best Novel and translated into fourteen languages. She is the author of numerous Sherlock Holmes pastiches, including the critically acclaimed Dust and Shadow and the forthcoming short story collection The Whole Art of Detection: Lost Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes.
Jaine Fenn is the author of numerous short stories in various genres and of the Hidden Empire series of character-driven space opera, published by Gollancz.
Nick Kyme is an author and editor who lives and works in Nottingham in the United Kingdom. He has written over fifteen novels and novellas based in the fantasy and science fiction worlds of Warhammer 40,000 and Warhammer Fantasy Battles, published through the Games Workshop imprint, the Black Library. His novella Feat of Iron featured in the New York Times bestselling novel The Primarchs for The Horus Heresy series, for which he has also edited several collections. He has written many short stories, one of which, “Forgotten Sons”, was part of the New York Times bestselling anthology Age of Darkness, and his short story “Tempest” featured in the Sabbat Crusade anthology edited by Dan Abnett.
Regarding Sherlock Holmes, he wrote the short story “The Post Modern Prometheus” as part of the Encounters of Sherlock Holmes collection, published by Titan Books.
