by C J Lutton
The way Mycroft called me “the doctor” as if I was as common as dirt and not worthy of having a Christian name, rankled. “So glad you think so, Mycroft. Especially seeing as how you press-ganged both of us. You could have allowed me to return to the comfort of our rooms rather than divert my journey home.”
“I have need of Sherlock’s unusual talents,” said Mycroft.
“And merely asking me to visit would have been far too courteous? Too laborious?” Sherlock said, in a scoffing manner while pulling up a chair. I took one, too. Like his brother, when Mycroft fixated on a goal, he could be most discourteous.
“I haven’t the time to waste on niceties,” he said, proving my point. “Not when the whole of the British Empire is in jeopardy.”
“Hyperbole,” said Holmes, pulling his little black devil from his pocket.
Mycroft did not offer him a light. “Sherlock, when have you ever known me to exaggerate? Never! This particular situation is both delicate in a political sense and important in a way such as I have never seen before. In fact, given the circumstances, I shall not waste time asking you. I command you as a citizen of the realm to do exactly as I say.”
This piqued Sherlock’s interest. The casual observer might not have noticed the flaring of his nostrils, the subtle shift of his weight, or the way his fingers tightened on the bowl of his pipe, but I did. Accordingly, I too listened to Mycroft with full attention.
“A cab waits outside for you. It will take you to the morgue. There you will meet with Berthold, one of my men. He will instruct you further. Now begone.” Mycroft struggled to his feet. “And know this, of all the tasks I’ve set for you, this might be the most challenging. If it were not for your specific abilities, I would not risk your involvement. But the Queen needs you and so do I.”
13
Mycroft was as good as his word. Right outside the door of his office, we were accosted by a man built like a Toby jug, squat with a face compressed by time. He eyed us with suspicion before offering the quickest bow I’ve ever seen. “The name’s Berthold. Follow me,” he said in a brusque voice.
As we dutifully walked behind our guide, through the hallways and tunnels that ran beneath the Diogenes Club, I grew more and more cross with every step. My head ached from hunger. The cold had chilled my bones. Mycroft’s overbearing manner, his lack of trust in me, and his high-handed way of ordering his brother around did nothing to soothe my jangled nerves.
“I say,” I muttered, “before we embark on some sort of errand for your brother, Holmes, especially one that involves visiting a morgue, could we stop and get a bite to eat? I am famished, I am thirsty, and I am tired. I need such creature comforts if I am to perform whatever duties our new assignment might demand.”
“There’s a cab waiting for you outside on the street,” Berthold said. “Makes me no difference but I darst say, you may want to wait for your food until after we’ve visited the, er, our destination.”
This put me in a very gloomy mood indeed. “Then perhaps Holmes could go and I could wait whilst—” I began, but Berthold quickly disarmed my suggestion. “No, sir. That won’t do at all. Mr. Mycroft Holmes was exceedingly clear on that one point: The doctor must go with my brother. I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles, you’ll be able to do your business and depart right quickly.”
Swallowing my disappointment, because that was all I had to chew on, I followed my comrades out into the bright morning, even as the frigid wind slapped me across the face. As it did, I recognised the sun was warming the earth. Slowly the snow and ice were melting. Thankfully, the cab was waiting for us not ten steps away. We threw ourselves inside, and naturally I took the seat next to my friend.
Berthold seemed distracted so I put my questions to Holmes: “Whatever do you suppose Mycroft has in mind? And that bit about the Queen. Surely, if Her Majesty wanted your help, She would simply ask you directly. All of this sly maneuvering is really too much.”
Holmes kept his gaze upon the changing scenery outside our window. “Watson, have you ever seen my brother so discombobulated? No? Neither have I. Whatever this is, rest assured, it is not trivial. Mycroft’s curt manner increases in direct proportion to the seriousness of the task ahead. Search your memory and you will see that is true.”
As usual, Holmes was right, so I abandoned that topic and sallied forth on another. “What are your plans regarding Mrs. Morel?”
“My plans?” He raised one eyebrow. “I have no plans regarding Mrs. Morel. Her cry for help is naught but a ruse. I must allow, however, that I need more facts if I am to draw a sound conclusion as to why she has gone to so much trouble. Let me guess: You see her as a damsel in distress? Am I right?”
My transparency made me uncomfortable. “She clearly needs help of one sort or another, Holmes. Why else would she bother with the world’s most famous consulting detective? We know she asked for you specifically. No, I think you dismiss her quandary with too little concern. Is it not possible that she is at the mercy of another? That she is being forced to play a part?”
“Ha!” Sherlock Holmes guffawed. “A woman like that is never at the mercy of another. She has beauty, she has talent, and she has brains. Gold is pale when compared to what she can claim as her own. That makes me curious, I’ll confess. But the story about her missing husband I find hard to countenance.”
14
Our errand, for that is what I suspected it was, took us through various streets. The changing scenery warned me that we were drawing near to the Thames. Indeed, I soon saw proof of my assumption as the shops changed to reflect the nearness of the river, that artery that pumps water through the heart of London. Once again our conveyance lurched to a stop and we found ourselves deposited in a melting mound of snow. What had been a blanket of snowy white had turned into a coarse rendering in shades of gray. Despite the cold, a stench loomed over us and leaked in through the crevices of our vehicle. Dead fish, rotting seaweed, and that organic smell I always associate with the sea assaulted my senses.
Berthold had not uttered a word, yet at the jarring end of our transport, he snapped to attention and promptly hopped out of the cab. Holding the door open for us, he said, “Get out, gentlemen. This is our destination. We have arrived.”
Sherlock Holmes’ eyes fluttered to wakefulness. After a powerful yawn, he unfolded his lean frame and climbed out. I was right behind him, and upon clapping eyes on the building in front of us, I said, “The morgue? The Kew deadhouse?” It was not a question so much as an affirmation of reality. Of course, as a doctor, I was familiar with the Kew morgue. This small, plain building had been necessitated by the plethora of bodies washed up by the tidal changes of the Thames. The parish had long been responsible, but once the anatomists offered five shillings (a whole crown!) for bodies, no one could depend on proper examination of the dead before the corpses were carried off. Thus, many instances of foul play went undetected. In recognition of this failing, deadhouses such as these were hastily constructed. Even as Holmes and I waited while Berthold went to find the beadle, so that he might unlock the door, the stench from the place was nigh unto unbearable.
Holmes has trained himself to distinguish a great many odours and, typically, those emissions from a corpse arouse curiosity in him rather than disgust. Even so, he shook his head at the smell. “As the cold has retreated, so has every element that dampens the foul odour of death.”
Berthold returned with a smallish man, costumed in a bright red jacket with cording at the shoulders. He held his ceremonial mace as proudly as any soldier ever carried the standard for the United Kingdom. Upon seeing Holmes and me, he seemed to put a snap in his step as he lifted his chin higher. With more than a hint of pomposity, he unlocked the door to the deadhouse. Moving briskly away, he spoke to us like a commander to his troops. “You’ll not be wanting to linger, I’ll wager. Yon poor soul rolled up in the tide, and if he’s not claimed today, we’ll commit him to a pauper’s grave.”
“We shall see,” said Holmes enig
matically. He ducked to walk inside but I did not have to. Lighting a match and putting the flame to the wick of an overhanging lamp, Berthold did not say a word as he stepped as far away as the confined space would allow him.
The beadle had managed to bring his mace along. This officer of the church was spry and wiry, with a face like a map of London, all covered with lines and dots. Only his eyes were remarkable, as they gleamed with an uncommon intensity. I could see why the parish valued him, as I doubt he missed any tidbit of activity on his watch. This man might be elderly, but he was far from decrepit.
The beadle held his mace aloft with one hand as he tugged on the sheet covering the body with the other. Slowly the stained muslin came away to reveal a visage mauled by fish and crabs. Indeed, the flesh of this poor man had been chewed on by a variety of water-loving creatures. I reminded myself to look past these disfigurements. Instead, I concentrated on parsing what riddles the deceased might help us solve. His uniform was not completely intact, but large portions remained, owing to the density of the fabric. His beard needed trimming, as did his hair.
“The full beard suggests this man served in the Royal Navy, even if his costume is too beleaguered to wholly conform to regulations.” Holmes tilted his head and stared at the subject before us.
“We must undress him,” Holmes remarked. To wit, he unbuttoned the collar of the jacket and the dull brass buttons that ran the length of the placket. Then he unbuttoned the trousers. The shoes, thankfully, were missing, as were the socks. “Watson? Lift him from the head and shoulders, please.”
I struggled to do as Holmes asked. One does not realise how rigidly we maintain our posture until one tries to coax floppy limbs into new positions and keep them there. Reluctantly, Berthold came to my assistance. Together we each took charge of an armpit and hoisted our portion above the slab. Holmes tugged and worked the fabric until the breeches came off. Awkwardly, we rotated our positions, as Holmes worked the hands and arms out of the jacket.
When finally the corpse was naked, Holmes was the first to observe the letters “L.I.V.” had been tattooed on the forearm.
“Do you see now, Holmes, that you were unkind to poor Mrs. Morel?” I said, feeling pleased that the body was marked as she had described.
“Watson, you have leapt to a conclusion. Yes, this is a dead man. Yes, he looks to be a sailor of some rank. True, his flesh is marked with three letters: L.I.V. But none of this proves that our poor friend is in any way related to Mrs. Morel.”
I bit back an angry retort and settled for, “Have it your way, Holmes. I think we have seen quite enough.”
“No, Watson,” said Holmes in a kindly tone. “We have just begun. Observe, please, the chaffing at the wrists and ankles. What can we deduce from that?”
I peered closer. “That he was shackled for some time?”
“Yes. Quite so. Let me also introduce you to the many crusted irregular patches of skin on those parts of the anatomy that are extremely sensitive to pain.” Holmes pointed out red dots near the groin, around the nipples, and under the arms. “What might that lead you to deduce?”
I unhooked the lantern to hold it closer to the flesh of our corpse. “Burns! My word! This man was burned. Probably a lit stick was held to his flesh!”
“Of that there is no doubt,” Holmes agreed. “Turn your attention please to the deep indentation of flesh around the throat. See where the skin is sliced through in places? What can we learn from that?”
Moving to the top of the corpse, I trained the meager light of the lantern so I could explore the area under the beard more carefully. Holmes, of course, was right again: This man had been garroted. I said, “I suggest a wire was used in conjunction with a piece of wood. This wound is too deep, too specific, and too deadly to have been rendered by an amateur.”
“I concur,” said Holmes. “Now, Dr. Watson, please open the man up.”
“Begging your pardon?” I asked as incredulity froze me to the spot. “You are asking…you want me to cut into this corpse? For what purpose, Holmes? It seems like a sacrilege to further defile this poor remnant of a human being. Has he not endured enough?”
“Ah,” said Holmes, “I will wager you a shilling that he has endured much more than we presently know. In fact, I believe he has a secret, one that he would be eager to share with us if he could. Now, please, did you bring your medical tools with you?”
“No.”
To the beadle, Holmes directed a question, “Sir, do you have a sturdy knife that the doctor could borrow? The sharper the better.”
The man disappeared in the blink of an eye. Had the circumstances not been so bleak, I could have chuckled at his fervor, but in this depressing instance, I could only marvel at how agile the man proved himself to be. The smell of rotting flesh had become familiar to our noses. So much so that the corpse no longer seemed odiferous, although surely it was.
“Exactly how do you want me to open this body up, Holmes?” I asked. “Do you wish me to perform an autopsy? If so, we might want to move our friend. A knife won’t work for cutting through bone.”
“Fear not, Watson. I am not asking anything so onerous. No, I merely want you to fillet the corpse, exposing his digestive tract to us so that we can examine it. I am curious about what this man might have been fed in the last hours of his life. Did you notice that he is uncommonly heavy? Certainly, the dead seem heavy because their limbs are flaccid, but this man’s weight seems excessive compared to his structure. I want to know why.”
“Are you suggesting he ingested a large meal before he was garroted?” I was only halfway jesting.
“No, I am thinking along the lines of digestives that cannot be digested.”
“Is this a riddle? If so, your sense of timing is abominable.”
The beadle saved Holmes from more of my pointed irritation by offering me a leather case. “That’s a Bowie knife in there,” he said proudly. “My son’s a cowboy out west in the United States of America. He sent that to me because I was worrying about him and Injuns. But he says that’s just sensationalism, like them stories about Sherlock Holmes. Nothing but wild tales meant to sell books, he says.”
Holmes raised a sardonic eyebrow. I said nothing beyond offering my gratitude for a tool worthy of my trade.
The knife was sharper than any knife I’ve ever used with the possible exception of a new scalpel. Following Holmes’ directive, I plunged the blade into the xiphoid process, the third and largest segment of the sternum. Of course, since the man on the slab was nearly four decades old, that cartilage had ossified considerably. The Bowie knife did an admirable job of piercing the bony plate.
Across the room, Berthold responded by heaving. Racing out of the deadhouse, he must have only stumbled his way a few feet from the threshold because the sounds of his retching echoed through the small building.
“I may need help, if you want me to part the ribs,” I said, looking up at Holmes.
“I doubt that will be necessary. The digestive tract is my goal.”
“All right,” I said. After extending the incision to a length of approximately eight inches, I cut free the spleen and the liver. Using both hands, I lifted out the spleen, as it was closest to me. Then I reached over the incision and removed the liver. This exposed the stomach.
“Open that,” said Holmes, pointing a long, thin finger at the stomach. He was leaning over the corpse with such interest that his head nearly collided with mine.
“Kindly move out of my way,” I said. “On occasion, the stomach succumbs to bloating. Gases might turn this organ into a vigorous fountain of bile.” After my pronouncement, I watched my friend. He took my advice to heart and stepped back, although he nearly collided with the beadle, a man whose keen interest seemed unfettered by any hint of nausea.
Delicately, I inserted the tip of the knife into the expanded organ. As I had prophesized, a whoosh of accumulated gases spewed from the inch-long incision I’d made. Once the noxious fumes exhausted themselves, I pres
sed the tip of the Bowie knife in deeper and slowly sliced a line perpendicular to the side of the marble slab.
Holmes hurried over. “Well?”
“Well, what?” I heartily regretted that I was wearing my good jacket. The bodily fluids splashed on the wool would never come out.
“Well, what do you see?”
After being sliced open, the stomach caved in on itself, rather like a hot air balloon does when deflated. If I’d been properly attired, I would have reached in and opened the pouch back up. Considering the damage to my outer garment, I used the tip of the knife as a tool, instead. I flipped back the side of the stomach closest to Holmes.
All three of us gasped in unison.
The dead man’s stomach was filled to the limits of its extension. But instead of food, it was dense with nuggets of gold.
15
Berthold rejoined us, although he looked worse for wear. The cacophony of our gasps had lured him back inside the charnel house. His facial pallor indicated he was not up to the task of remaining at my side.
“Mr. Berthold, rather than faint and hit your head, I suggest you wait outside for us,” I said curtly.
“No,” Holmes countered my proposal. “Stay but one more minute. Berthold, we need to transport this body. My brother should see this.”
“Pardon me, Mr. Holmes,” said Berthold, “but your brother was quite clear. He asked only for a report. His schedule is such that viewing this with his own two eyes is a waste of his time and energy. That said, I suppose we better take the gold back with us, eh? I can’t calculate how much is there, but it looks to me to be a king’s ransom.”
“At the very least, keep the body here for a day or so. I might want to bring the woman who claims to be the dead man’s wife here for a viewing,” said Holmes.
“Claims?” I cast Holmes an angry look.
