“Right you are,” the old man’s son replied. “Bit above the Gov’ner’s station, like. But even bankers got what you might call outside interests. Any road, Prendergast knew the Gov’ner. The two of ’em talked in this very room. I was a kid—couldn’t’a been more’n twelve—but it’d be around the time the job was runnin’. I ’member the argy-bargy when he got hisself nicked. Prendergast was here,” he repeated firmly, emphasising the fact with a pronunciation of the h.
“Very well. But why do you think your father had anything to do with the fraud?”
“He dint. Like you said, not his mettyer. But once the money was in Prendergast’s hands, what’d he do with it? And the Gov’ner knowed somefing, the old bastid, just on the fringes of the action, like. I dunno—’e mighta gave Prendergast some bright ideas, made some introductions, anyfing. But whatevver, I know ’e hant a clue how bloody big the thing was until Prendergast got nicked. Jeez Mary, I thought the old man’s heart was gonna stop then and there. An’ all through the trial and after Prendergast was lagged off Down Under, the Gov’ner kept ’is ear to the ground. An’ never stopped, even after that boat went down.
“ ’E allus swore that Prendergast ’ad put all that money into some form that’d travel light—passbook, bank notes, that kinda thing. Diamonds, maybe. Used ta talk about how the cove dint necess’rily have it on the boat with ’im—could of left it to be posted to him Down Under. And even if ’e did have it, summat like that could float, couldn’t it? Dint need nuffin but a sharp eye to spot ’em and a quick hand to pluck ’em out the wreckage. Yes, Mr ’Olmes, the Gov’ner went to ’is grave believin’ that Prendergast money was out there somewhere.
“And me? Well, I’m a sensible man. All them years and no breath of it, I more or less decided, like you, that it’s sunk to the bottom of the briny, waitin’ for some fella with one a them sub-marine boats ta go after it. And then be damned if Mr Sam ’Udson don’t walk up, bold as brass, to say how his granddad’d got a serious amount of money, and did I have any idea where it might be?”
“I met James Hudson twenty-four years after the Gloria Scott went down,” Holmes said carefully. “He had no money at all.”
“Then ’e found it just after, ’cause ’cording to Samuel, ’is letter said ’e ’ad a ruddy fortune droppin’ out of the sky. All ’e had to do was get back Down Under to cash it in.”
Over the course of The Bishop’s peroration, Sherlock Holmes had begun to feel decidedly ill at ease. He’d come here unarmed and unafraid, trusting in the fat old villain’s self-interest to ensure that he would walk out again. But this was another matter entirely. This was compulsion, fantasy—madness. Like walking into a room and having it erupt into flames.
The obsession this Bishop had inherited—rendered dormant by the years—had been galvanised by the arrival of Samuel Hudson. The fat hands gripping the throne arms, those piggy eyes gleaming with passion: mania was building around him like an electric charge. Hair rose on Holmes’ scalp.
Think, he commanded his brain: rage, hate, love—and fear. Strong emotions to stimulate the adrenal glands, weapons in the hand of a thoughtful man, a delusion in the mind of a criminal.
Think! The Bishop had found a kindred soul in Samuel Hudson, criminal to criminal. Had he dangled that mind-warping sum in front of the Australian, sparking the greed in both of them, and sent Hudson to Sussex in search of it?
Speak—now! “You think Prendergast converted his stolen fortune into a bank passbook or the like. Is that what Samuel Hudson came to me for?”
“ ’E dint tell you?”
“Our conversation was…limited.”
“Sammy knew there was money, just not ’ow much, or where it come from. Once I told him what he’d be lookin’ for, ’e seemed ta think ’e knew where it was—but I told ’im it wouldn’t be enough. That wifout what I knew, ’e’d be barking up a tree. ’E’ll be back, when ’e finds I’m right.”
“So what did he not know?”
“Sonefing the Gov’ner figgered out.”
“And what was that?”
But there, The Bishop drew the line. “I ain’t gonna tell you that. If I did—” The old man stopped abruptly, eyes narrowing to slits. Holmes felt coldness stir within, and fought to keep it from his face. “Did Sammy tell you? ’Is part of the puzzle, I mean?”
The cold seemed to spread. “I take it Mr Hudson did not share his heart fully with you, either?”
“ ’E let me know ’e was hidin’ somethin’, just like I let ’im know I had somethin’ up m’own sleeve. Did ’e tell you what it was? Maybe your conversation weren’t really ‘limited.’ Maybe you and ’im ’ad a nice long talk, and maybe you and ’im thought, we can cut The Bishop out. All we gotta do is get the old man to let slip what ’e knows.”
If The Bishop believed for one instant that Sherlock Holmes could point him towards the hidden treasure he had pined over for seventy years, he’d call his men in and take this amateur detective to pieces, heedless of the storm that Holmes’ death would bring down. Lust of that degree was a thing Sherlock Holmes had seen often enough to recognise it, to fear it—and to know that a show of fear was what set it off.
So he locked his dread deep below the surface and crossed his legs in a display of negligence, one foot bouncing a little to illustrate the meditative process.
“You say you may have a key piece of this puzzle?” he asked at last.
The Bishop saw only a sort of scholarly interest. Slowly, he nodded, causing the chins to wobble.
“One you think Samuel Hudson will need if he is to lay hands on that two hundred fifty thousand pounds?”
Even within the folds of skin, Holmes could see The Bishop’s pupils flare at the sum. “Pretty sure,” he said.
“Can you just tell me—not the thing itself, but what it concerns?”
If the answer was “Clarissa Hudson,” The Bishop was a dead man. But it was not.
“I know ’oo Samuel’s father is.”
Holmes blinked. “And knowing that might lead Samuel to the money?”
“Combined with what ’e has, I’d guess so.”
“And did you tell him what it is that you know?”
“I did not.”
Two criminals, each with incomplete knowledge, both wishing to get the other’s information while leading him away from the goal.
Time for a risk—calculated, yes, but a risk nonetheless. Holmes put on a look of reluctant agreement, and asked, “I suppose that if the monies were found, and returned to their original investors, you would like a commission? A generous percentage, of course, by way of reward?”
The Bishop came very close to explosion, at the thought of losing what he saw as his money. But Holmes’ businesslike attitude—and the word “generous”—delayed him long enough to let thought catch up with emotion: if Sherlock Holmes was treating this dream seriously…
And with thought came a voice of rationality. No one in London—certainly no London criminal—would believe that Holmes could be tempted by money, even a quarter million pounds of the stuff. Still, if the great Sherlock Holmes was offering to aid in the recovery of £250,000—The Bishop’s face cleared.
“The blokes who owned it’ll be long dead,” he pointed out.
“Their heirs, then,” Holmes said as if in agreement. “I’m sure that would be quite satisfactory. Very well. I agree to see if I can locate Mr Hudson, and act to broker whatever clues you and he might be able to put together to retrieve the Prendergast fortune. Perhaps he’ll show up in Sussex. Again.”
He rose, as if agreement had been reached. The Bishop wavered: letting go of Holmes had to be a mistake, but…a quarter million pounds. Even a slice of that was better than what he had now. He waved a hand with a gesture worthy of kings.
But Holmes did not breathe fully until the Radcliffe Highway was three turns behind him.
The Bishop might know who Samuel’s father was. Did that possibility justify confronting Mrs Hudson with the que
stion? Holmes was afraid that answer was yes.
Assuming the missing fortune was recovered: would The Bishop be satisfied with a cut, however generous? Not for one minute.
Would they ever be faced with that problem? About that he felt even more certain: no. The money was a pipe-dream. Jack Prendergast’s cleverly defrauded fortune lay scattered across the sea bed, somewhere off the African coast. Prendergast’s treasure would no doubt take on mythic weight over time, joining the fountain of youth, Prester John’s kingdom, the Holy Grail, and the El Dorado gold.
—
So distracted was Holmes, he nearly forgot to retrieve his flowery call for help from the newsagent’s shelf.
Because Mycroft was not in his flat that day, I could be. According to him, the Palace breakfast often merged with luncheon. After that was finished, he would make his formal handing-over of approved names to the printing offices of the London Gazette. And following that, with many long days behind him and several hours of booze-laced breakfast, lunch, and ritual under his belt, he planned to retire to the Diogenes Club, whose silent and soporific arms rarely let him go much before midnight.
The London Gazette had been the journal of record for government matters since 1665 (beginning in Oxford, by the way, with plague gripping London and the court of Charles II chary about contaminated reading matter). “Published by Authority,” its header declared, and it took that responsibility very seriously indeed. If it was in the Gazette, it had better be both true and accurate, or heads would roll. Mycroft’s physical presence at the ritual was a sign of its importance.
It had also been the reason behind the unwonted turmoil of his normally placid home during this past week: maddening discussions of honours list minutiae, conducted both in person with an endless series of visitors and over telephone connexions of varying degrees of clarity. The rumble of voices and ring of the bell had been nearly constant, and wore on my already raw nerves. Yet I was also grateful for his preoccupation: were it not for the birthday honours, I might have been forced into conversation, and thus a confrontation over the ethical use of power for which I did not feel ready.
At any rate, Mycroft’s absence meant that Billy and I were free to set up our studies upon his dining table, our metal box making stark contrast to the table’s usual sumptuous burden.
Some of the box’s contents were expected: passport, cheque-book, a notebook with addresses, most of them Australian. I set that aside for the moment, and picked up the letters.
James Hudson—our Mrs Hudson’s father—had been a surprisingly dedicated if marginally literate correspondent, first to his wife and later to his daughter Alicia. There were only a dozen letters here, but internal references made it clear that considerably more had filled the long gaps between these—either discarded or left behind in Australia. I sorted them by date and started reading. In minutes, Billy’s forehead was resting on the table. When the snoring began, I shook him awake and ordered him home.
He blinked rapidly and scrubbed at his face, which, even with his slow-growing beard, showed bristle. “I’ll just kip on the sofa.”
“Billy, go home. Remind your wife who you are.” I broke into the inevitable protest to address his true concern. “I give you my word, I’ll telephone to you the very instant Holmes proposes to hare off to some corner of the globe.”
He studied my face for deception, but in fact, I had already decided that whatever was going on here, William Mudd seemed to have some place in it. Too, between my sore arm and Holmes’ years, having another hearty set of muscles might not be a bad idea.
He nodded and yawned simultaneously, nearly causing himself damage, and retrieved his coat from the back of the chair. He did pause at the door. “You swear you’ll ring me?”
“Unless there’s a gun to my head, I shall call.”
Alone, at last, for the first time since Samuel Hudson had pulled into my drive on Wednesday morning. (Or did a car journey with a dead man count as “alone”?) I went for a quick search in Mycroft’s library for the volume containing the Gloria Scott adventure, then arranged some pillows on his deep settee and settled in with Dr Watson’s narrative, about a young man, a friendship, and the first stirring instincts of a detective.
When I had finished, I returned to the table and the Hudson letters.
—
James Hudson died long before I was born, so I only knew him through Dr Watson’s story, and to a lesser extent, the eyes of Sherlock Holmes. Physically unsightly and morally repugnant, Hudson stood in my mind as an ageing mutineer-turned-blackmailer who had raised the ire of a fledgling detective. That Hudson might have had a life outside of those crimes and that detective seemed unimportant when compared to the direction Holmes’ life had taken after—and, in part, because of—that meeting. I had, as I told Holmes, long known that our Mrs Hudson was in some way linked to the Hudson of the Gloria Scott case, but I had vaguely assumed that she had once been married, either to the villain or to his son.
She was instead the villain’s daughter.
I had learned more about Mrs Hudson these past three days than in the previous ten years. I was also learning some uncomfortable truths about myself. Despite my affection and gratitude for this woman (once I’d satisfied myself, back in 1917, that any secrets she was hiding were no threat to Holmes), I never tried to find out more about her. As an individual, she was as much a part of my scenery as the sheep on the Downs and the basket chair in the sitting room.
I was astonished, and fascinated, and—yes—somewhat troubled by what I learned of Mrs Hudson, those days and the time that followed. But mostly, I was ashamed, that I had never even asked.
—
Many hours later, the key in Mycroft’s door startled me from reverie. I shot a glance at the clock: ten after eleven. I’d intended to retreat to the guest room before now—but to my relief, it was the thinner of the brothers. “Hello, Holmes. I was wondering if I’d see you again today.”
Holmes aimed his furled umbrella at the stand and dropped his hat on the small marble table, shrugging off his overcoat as he crossed the room.
“Been seeing your banker?” I asked. On a Saturday? The ebony suit he wore was not the one he’d started the day inside.
“A banker, certainly. I required a tutorial in the history of currency. Whose hand is that?” he asked with a glance at the paper on the table before me.
“James Hudson’s.”
He held the page up to the light—interested in the writing, rather than the words. With a grunt, he dropped it and went on into the flat. I gathered the letters and moved to the fire, adding some coal to the embers. Holmes returned wearing an old quilted smoking jacket in place of his City black. He poured a pair of brandies and handed me one.
One eyebrow went up at my eagerness. “Your arm is troubling you.”
“It’s just uncomfortable. What sorts of currency?”
“The tutorial was on the theory of money, not the practice. I needed to know how a man might carry £250,000 between his finger and his thumb.”
“Two hundred fif—good God, Holmes,” I sputtered. “Who has that kind of money?”
He had settled onto the chair to my right, red Morocco slippers propped on the low table. “That,” he said, holding his glass up to admire the colour, “is an interesting question.”
“This has to do with Samuel Hudson?”
“I cannot for the life of me believe in The Bishop’s theory; however, there is no doubt that the man himself does, and that may be the only important factor.”
“Explain, please.”
“What do you remember of the Gloria Scott?”
“Only Dr Watson’s account, and what you told me yesterday.”
“As the story came to me, one of the convicts being transported was a man named Jack Prendergast, convicted of fraud. His partner on board, he told Trevor—my friend Victor’s father—had enough money to buy the entire ship, ‘right between my finger and thumb.’ Now, whether that was the same a
s cash in a strong-box, or whether his accomplice was holding securities or the like for him, was never clear.”
“But the ship blew up.”
“That it did. The two convicts who later became Trevor and Beddoes had already been put into the ship’s boat, along with a few sailors who drew the line at murder. After the powder barrels blew, they went back for survivors. They found only James Hudson among the wreckage. None of those convicts would have been in any position to have more than a few coins about their persons.
“And yet, one of the oldest and most vicious of criminals in London believes with all his black heart that Jack Prendergast’s stolen treasure survived the destruction of the Gloria Scott.”
“Is that what Samuel Hudson was after?”
“So it would appear.”
“Why? I mean, why would he think…” that it survived? That Mrs Hudson had it? That my abduction could lead him to it?
“Do any of those letters mention The Bishop, or a moneylender?” he asked.
“Not by name, though he does say he’s in debt to what he calls an ‘unofficial’ moneylender.”
“That might have been enough. Or the name could be in another letter—or even something he was told in conversation. In any event, some four days after Samuel Hudson came to London, he went to visit The Bishop. At the time, he was aware that his grandfather may have possessed a certain amount of money, but he did not know how much or what had become of it.”
“Well, the last of James Hudson’s letters,” I told him, “written in October, 1879, refers to a ‘goodly stash’ that will let them live in comfort, once he gets to Sydney.”
“What day in October?” he asked sharply.
“The second. Why?”
“Interesting. What else—”
“No, you first. I take it this black-hearted villain of yours is The Bishop? Why does he think Samuel was looking for the Prendergast money?”
“Because he would be, if he were Samuel. And once he told Samuel exactly how much was involved, it brought our Australian friend to his side very quickly.”
The Murder of Mary Russell Page 28
