Lestrade laughed and gave the young bobby a clap on his shoulder. “No, I suppose not. The two of you can just keep walking around the neighborhood until dawn and then come back once the owners arrive in the morning and bring them down to the station. That will do.”
“Oh, thank you, sir.”
It was now just past two o’clock in the morning on one of the final nights of August. The weather was balmy, with a breeze blowing in off the river. The streets of London were empty and it was almost pleasant to walk north back to Victoria Station. The relief we felt on confirming that the kidnapped children had not been inhumanly dismembered was palpable. Our work, however, was far from over.
“What happens, now?” I asked Holmes and Lestrade.
“The first thing,” replied Holmes, “is to convey this news, very incomplete though it is, to the Cushing family. It will give them some relief from the pain and some basis for hope. Then we still have to find and rescue the children and try to make sense out of the monstrous and meaningless cruelty that has been inflicted on the family.”
“There may,” said Lestrade, wearily, “still be a ransom demand to come. This whole horrible series might just be the prolog.”
We continued our walk in silence. Upon reaching Victoria Station, we were fortunate to find two cabs who were working through the night and we parted ways with Lestrade. We came home and fell into our beds. I was fairly certain that it was the first decent sleep Holmes had allowed himself since this inexplicable case had begun two weeks ago.
Chapter Ten
We Did Not Get Ahead
I ROSE WELL AFTER EIGHT O’CLOCK the following morning. I was pleased to see that Holmes had not yet stirred and I sat down quietly to enjoy my morning coffee. From the street, I could hear the newsboys peddling the morning papers and I descended to Baker Street to get a copy. As I unfolded it and read the front page, my heart sank. The headline read:
HEADS OF CUSHING CHILDREN ARRIVE IN KNIGHTSBRIDGE
The story that followed went on to claim that the press had discovered that the final tarot card, The Judgement, had been delivered, with the heads of the male and female figures removed. Since the previous punctured cards had all been accompanied by the related body parts it was assumed that the heads of the children had also been delivered. What followed was a repeating of the events of the past fortnight, fused with mindless speculations and nasty criticism of both Scotland Yard and Sherlock Holmes for failing to prevent this abominable crime of torture and murder.
“HOLMES!” I shouted at the door of his room. “You must come now!”
He emerged in his dressing gown, took one look at the newspaper I held in front of him, and immediately returned to his bedchamber to bathe and dress. Ten minutes later, we were in a cab and on our way to Knightsbridge.
“What are you going to say to the Cushings?” I asked him.
“I will tell them what we know, and no more and no less.”
“And just what is it that we now know?”
“Oh, come, come, my good doctor. You know perfectly well what we know. We know that the body parts they received are not from their children and that they were taken from a morgue. And that is all we know for certain. We do not know where their children are nor why they have been kidnapped, nor why no ransom note has been received from the true kidnapper. And we have no idea who is behind this monstrous and cruel hoax. That is what we know and what we do not.”
“Is it permissible to offer them hope?”
“They will grasp all possible hope without any assistance from us. We will also make a promise to them not to rest until their children are returned to them safely. I believe I will be on safe grounds in making that same promise on behalf of Inspector Lestrade. Would you agree?”
“Yes. Yes. That all seems quite in order.”
As we turned onto the block of Ennismore Gardens in which the Cushing family lived I looked up the street and inwardly groaned. There was a large gaggle of reporters gathered in front of the house. Two of Lestrade’s constables were keeping them back from the doors and windows but there was no possible way we could enter the house without running their gantlet. I chanced to look behind our cab and noticed a Scotland Yard carriage following us. The good inspector had clearly had the same compulsion to come immediately to the family’s home and relieve them of the latest agony that the kidnapper and the press had inflicted on them.
Lestrade and Holmes exited their carriages at the same moment and were immediately swarmed by the press. Although we ignored them, it was impossible not to be cut by the jibes and insults.
“Halloo, Sherlock Holmes. How did the kidnapper get A…HEAD of you?” Raucous laughter followed.
“Hey there, Inspector. What will Scotland Yard put on the gravestones? How about REST IN PIECES!”
“Are your going to ask the corpses to GIVE YOU A HAND?” This was deemed oh-so-clever and there was a round of self-congratulatory back-slapping. More taunts followed until we entered the house. The man-servant, Mr. Browner, led us into the parlor. He stood at attention and bid us be seated.
“I’m dreadfully sorry, gentlemen. The master and mistress are in the library along with some of the elders from the Assembly. They are having a time of prayer. I do not expect they will be much longer. May I bring you some coffee and some pastries while you wait?”
“Good heavens, man,” snapped Lestrade. “Just go and interrupt them and tell them to get in here. This is much more important and I am sure God will not object.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. I will interrupt as soon as the current participant has finished his prayer. But do be patient, they tend to go a long time.”
He clicked his heels again and retreated to the back of the house.
It was a full ten minutes before a small troop of prayer warriors emerged from the library and joined us in the parlor. Mrs. Cushing was with them, supported on the arm of one of the saintly sisters. Samuel Cushing brought up the rear and looked as physically drained as I had ever seen a man who was still on his feet and walking forward.
They apparently had all decided to be part of our disclosures and took chairs around the sides of the spacious parlor. Once Mr. Cushing had seated himself beside his wife on the sofa, I could see that Inspector Lestrade was ready to take command of the meeting. He did not speak up quickly enough. One of the gentlemen from the church announced that the gathering would begin with prayer and he stood and began to deliver. Being a somewhat less-than-regular adherent of the Catholic faith, I was not used to prayers that lasted more than a minute. Now I sat and listened while the good Lord above was reminded of more verses of Scripture than I could have imagined could have been called upon in such a time of need. I confess that I had always thought the Heavenly Father, having dictated all those verses Himself, knew all those passages quite well, and needed no reminders. If that were not enough, the dear saintly elder kept blessing the now departed souls of the dead children and gave a favorable report of their current joy as they walked the streets of gold. And finally, he managed to come up with a memory verse that was connected in some way to the various parts of the bodies that had been detached and shipped through the local livery service. A postscript was added beseeching divine guidance for both Sherlock Holmes and Inspector Lestrade who, it was to be concluded, were obviously in desperate need of same.
With the exception of Holmes, Lestrade and me, all others in the room kept their heads bowed and their eyes tightly shut. The three of us kept peering at each other in silence, rolling our eyes, shrugging our shoulders, and waiting until the heavens put the dear brother on hold and let us say our piece. Finally he ended and a round of audible amens was added by the other elders present.
Lestrade seized the opportunity and in a firm, confident voice announced, “Please, all of you, give me your attention. The various body parts that have been delivered to the Cushing family are absolutely and most certainly NOT from the bodies of young Aaron and Miriam Cushing. They were illegally taken from
bodies in a morgue and used to falsely represent appendages of the children. This we know for certain. Those who defiled the corpses have been arrested and this cruel charade has been stopped. No heads from any bodies have been delivered and we are certain that no heads ever will be delivered.
“At this time, the investigation is receiving all available help from Scotland Yard as well as the services of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. We do not yet know where the children are, nor who has taken them, nor what sort of ransom will be demanded, nor why this monstrous hoax has been played out. However, we will continue to work around the clock to answer all of those questions and our first priority will be the safe return of the children to their families.
“Now, Scotland Yard needs to ask further questions of the family and so I am directing all of you, except members of the Cushing household, on the authority of His Majesty’s national police force, to vacate these premises immediately so that our investigation may proceed. Thank you for your generous and compassionate assistance to the family. Now, please, all of you, be on your way. Thank you.”
One of the sainted brethren objected. “I beg to inform you, Inspector, that we have had word from the Lord that we should be here and …”
Lestrade was having none of that and cut him off. “Unfortunately, sir, the Lord has not yet got around to sending that word to me, and since this is now police business I am the one He has to inform. So kindly do as I have requested and vacate the premises, thank you. Your assistance to the family is appreciated.”
He rose as he spoke, moved to the entrance to the parlor, and gestured toward the door. The saints from the Assembly, somewhat begrudgingly perhaps, rose and left the house. From a gap in the curtains, I could see the press descend upon them like hungry locusts. I was sure that they would repeat to the press what they had been told by the inspector, and that the news would appear in the next available edition of the day’s newspapers.
The man-servant appeared with yet another round of coffee, tea, and sweet breads. We partook while Lestrade slowly and patiently repeated questions that had been posed earlier to the family, seeking to unearth whoever had both a close connection to the household and might harbor such venomous hatred toward them.
Samuel Cushing kept going back over his life and career. Yet no credible suspect emerged. “I have had,” he said, “strong disagreements with many senior men in Whitehall and many elected representatives in Westminster. But there was no one, not a one, who was not an honorable gentleman, who would take it upon himself to act in such an evil manner. Not a one, sir.”
When Lestrade had shot his bolt and come up empty, Holmes took over and directed his questions, firmly but gently toward both Mr. and Mrs. Cushing. His queries were politely stated but went right to the very depths of their private lives.
“Forgive me,” he said, “but we can leave no stone unturned. I assure you that whatever you say to us will be held in the strictest confidence, but I fear I must ask you some questions and the answers may be painfully private.”
The two Cushings looked at each other nodded, then turned and nodded to Holmes. I made a point of closing up my notebook and putting it back in my pocket.
Over the next hour, he probed all aspects of Mr. Cushing’s career in the Foreign Service, his friendship and possible conflicts within his church and the affiliated Assemblies, his purchases of properties or securities, and his dealings with the schoolmasters of his children. All of these areas, Holmes had learned, were fertile ground for deeply held conflicts between and among people. He then turned to Mrs. Cushing and did the same. She gave forthright answers about her friends within the church and those with whom she had tangled, about her hiring and firing of domestic help, about her dealings with local councils, neighbors, dustmen, grocers, and the like. Again, she clearly held nothing back and admitted to occasions when her temper had gotten the better of her. There had been the odd spot of friction, which was not surprising given her strong-willed character, but nothing that could conceivably invoke the cruel animosity to which they had been subjected.
Finally, Holmes went directly to the matter of the confession that Mr. Cushing had made over a week ago. The man blushed with shame as he recounted it in front of his wife. She never stopped looking up at him in love and adoration, although he was not looking back at her. She slowly slid her hand forward until it was against his and interlaced their fingers. I could see her knuckles whiten slightly as she applied pressure against his fingers. He turned and looked into her face and she whispered, “Darling, I know. And I love you all the more.”
Yet again, without visibly appearing to do so, I was mentally shaking my head. There were some things I would never understand. Lestrade, who had not been privy to the earlier conversation between Holmes and Samuel Cushing, was speechless and rendered positively bug-eyed.
Finally, Holmes looked directly at Mrs. Cushing and asked if she had ever had a lover.
She first looked up at her husband, smiled warmly, and then replied to Holmes.
“Yes…and no. It would not be accurate to call him a lover.”
Her husband’s eyes nearly popped from his head.
She smiled back. “When my sister was in her final month of pregnancy, and then during the first month after giving birth to her son, she was in no mood whatsoever for physical intimacy with Seth. She and I knew that both Seth and Sam had been blessed with powerful animal spirits of which we were the fortunate beneficiaries, but we also knew that the time when a young husband is most likely to stray was during those months when his wife was not looking after his needs. So we chatted about it, and for a period of about two months, I agreed to pretend to be her and make sure that Seth was duly exhausted on a regular basis.”
“And did your sister,” Holmes asked, “reciprocate during your pregnancies?”
“Oh, no. It was not necessary. My husband followed the advice that is given to all men by their doctors during that time of their lives. You know—if you wife cannot be your right hand, let your right hand be your wife.”
Sam Cushing looked at his wife in disbelief. “You knew … you knew I was doing that?”
“Well, of course, darling. You were not exactly quiet about it.”
I could see Lestrade becoming progressively less comfortable and he began to squirm in his chair. Holmes finally wound down his questions and the five of us sat back in our chairs, emotionally exhausted. This devout couple who sat in front of us had bared the most intimate details of the souls to us and to each other. Tears were running freely down Mrs. Cushing’s face and she had placed both hands around her husband’s arms and was clinging tightly.
I shot a quick glance out the window and was relieved to see that the press had departed, required no doubt to run back to Fleet Street to file their stories about the body parts from the morgue. Our path out and into Lestrade’s police carriage would be mercifully unobstructed.
While I was looking, Holmes and Lestrade were concluding the interview and going over a few of the answers they had received to make certain that they had understood everything correctly.
We were loudly interrupted.
The front door of the house opened, followed by a clatter and banging, and then the slamming of it shut again. And then a shout.
“Haaaalloooo!! We’re hoooome!!!”
Chapter Eleven
Kidnapped to Guernsey
AFTER A FEW MORE BUMPS, bangs and crashes two young people burst into the parlor.
“Oh, Daddy,” bubbled the young woman, “it was absolutely brilliant. Thank you sooo much. We had a wonderful time. It was the best, Daddy. Thank you.”
The slender, tanned youngster threw herself forward toward Mr. Cushing, flung her arms around him, and gave him a large, noisy kiss on the cheek.
“Muuuaaahhh!” she added a sound to her kiss. She then turned to face Mrs. Cushing and repeated the affectionate act.
Immediately behind her came a tall, fine-looking young man. Like his sister, he was casually but smartly
dressed, tanned, and beaming with a smile from ear to ear.
“Dad, thanks. That was the best surprise we could ever imagine. It was great.”
Here he stopped, suddenly becoming aware that there were three strangers in his parlor.
“Oh, oh. I’m sorry. Are you having a meeting? Oh, sorry. We’ll be on our way. But we just had to tell you, thank you. It was bang up the elephant. There were fellows and girls from all over Europe and America. Miri and I have never had such a good time.”
“Oh, my, didn’t we though,” exclaimed the young woman. “You should have seen how well we did. You would be sooo proud of us. My brother won the harrier race. He won, Mommy, doesn’t that just take the egg! There were boys from all over the place, and he won. I was sooo proud of him.”
“Ahh, it wasn’t all that special” returned the young man. “Some of the Swiss boys could run, but the rest of them, the French and the Italians, they may as well of had no feet and been running on their stumps. But you should have seen Miriam. She took two prizes. She won the girls swim and the girls hundred yard dash. Of course, they wouldn’t let the boys watch up close, but I could tell it was her. She won two trophies. You must show them to Momsy and Dad, Sis. Go get them!”
“Oh, good idea. Sorry, I know we’re disturbing your meeting. But I just have to show them to you. Can we put them on the mantle, Daddy? Just wait I’ll be right back.”
She dashed out of the room, grabbing her suitcase as she entered the hall and I could hear the loud thumps of her ascending the stairs, two at a time.
“Oh, and Dad,” rattled on the lad. “It wasn’t all just fun and games and a big benjo. The speakers were really top-drawer, especially the chap from Georgia, in America. We poked a bit of fun at the way he talked but, whoa, could he preach. And Dad, you’ll be sooo proud of Miriam and me. They put us on the same Bible Quiz team. She didn’t like that at all because she was quite taken with Jeremy, from Edinburgh and wanted to be on his team …”
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four Page 22
