The Disappearance of Alistair Ainsworth

by Leonard Goldberg

  “Ah, the inestimable associate of the late Sherlock Holmes,” Ah Sing said, obviously pleased with my father’s presence.

  “I am indeed,” my father said, with an acknowledging bow of his head.

  “And beside you is your son who so resembles you and has taken over the role of chronicler of the daughter’s detective skills.”

  “I take it you have read his accounts of our mysteries.”

  “As has every Londoner,” Ah Sing said. “It would be my honor to answer any of your questions.”

  “I have only a few,” my father began. “Did you speak with the man?”

  “I did.”

  “Could you detect a foreign accent?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “From your description of the man, I would think he was a novice at opium smoking.”

  “Quite. Why a man would spend for a pipeful and use only half is beyond me.”

  “If there was a fight or struggle or cry for help, would your men stationed in the alley intervene?”

  “Instantly,” Ah Sing replied. “And the person causing such a disturbance would leave with a reminder never to return.”

  “Finally, was the duo of Mr. Ainsworth and Mr. Marlowe ever accompanied by a woman?”

  “Never in my presence.”

  A group of Chinese sailors appeared at the door, obviously in a cheerful mood. Ah Sing waved to them and, turning back to us, asked to be excused.

  “Of course,” Joanna said. “And thank you for your assistance. You have been most helpful.”

  “So there will be no need for Inspector Lestrade to visit?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  We walked out into a light drizzle and hurried to our carriage. Again I saw lurking shadows in the dark, nearby alley, but now they seemed comforting rather than menacing. And more importantly, it was clear that were Alistair Ainsworth to cry out for help, his attacker would have no doubt been brutally punished, for Ainsworth was obviously a favored patron at the opium den.

  “You have concluded that Alistair Ainsworth could not have been taken captive here,” Joanna said matter-of-factly.

  “How do you manage to read my mind so?” I asked in bewilderment.

  “You stared at the shadows in the alleyway and your expression, rather than tightening, became relaxed,” Joanna elucidated. “Thus, you no longer see them as a threat, but as protectors who would instantly come to Ainsworth’s aid if he cried for assistance. The Germans would have been aware of this as well and planned their attack to take place some distance away from Ah Sing’s. With all these facts in mind, you reached the correct conclusion.”

  “Kudos to both of you,” my father chimed in. “Although I must admit that I too was reaching the very same conclusion, based primarily on the shadowy figures lurking nearby.”

  Joanna nodded. “That was the defining feature.”

  “And you knew beforehand that the abduction of Alistair Ainsworth would take place in the vicinity of the opium den,” I continued on.

  “It was the most likely scenario, but needed to be proven.”

  “So it seems that question has been answered with certainty,” I said. “But does that bring us any closer to finding Alistair Ainsworth?”

  “I believe so,” Joanna replied. “For it now asks the most important question. Namely, how did the Germans know Ainsworth visited Ah Sing’s with such regularity every Monday night at nine o’clock promptly?”

  “Because the Germans had to have seen him in the opium den,” I answered. “The agent’s presence was observed by Ah Sing on several occasions.”

  “Do you believe the German agent, who was clearly unaccustomed to using opium, just happened to stop in to Ah Sing’s and spot Ainsworth in a smoke-filled corner?”

  “He had to be informed,” I said at once.

  “Of course he was. The agent was tipped off by someone who knew exactly every step of Ainsworth’s routine.”

  “It had to be someone in the Admiralty Club,” my father concluded.

  “Such as Roger Marlowe who departed the den early that evening and left Ainsworth alone,” I added.

  “His departure was most convenient,” Joanna noted.

  “But Marlowe’s early departure does not prove him guilty of treason,” my father said.

  “It does not prove him innocent either,” said Joanna, and stared out into the rain now pounding down on the dark streets of East London. “We are moving into murky waters here.”

  “But surely the list of guilty candidates has been narrowed down,” my father asserted.

  “Do not be so certain of that, Watson,” Joanna said as she leaned back and closed her eyes.

  It was her way of ending a conversation. It was also her method of concentrating on every clue and detail of a difficult case, and arranging them in an order that led to resolution.

  We continued on in silence, with the only sound being made by the wheels of our carriage clocking against the cobblestone road. But my mind remained fixed on who had betrayed Alistair Ainsworth. Certainly Roger Marlowe stood high on the list, with his convenient absence from Ah Sing’s the night Ainsworth disappeared. Yet there were a number of unnamed suspects to be considered as well, such as anyone who had access to Ainsworth’s file at the Admiralty’s Office of Naval Intelligence. Or, as Joanna had suggested earlier, perhaps it was a careless word or a document that should have been destroyed but wasn’t that led to Ainsworth’s identity being uncovered. The possibilities seemed endless.

  Turning onto Edgware Road I became acutely aware of the eerie blackness that surrounded us. There was hardly a light to be seen, for even the streetlights had been turned off. All of London was now under a blackout, so as not to guide Germany’s zeppelin fleet to its bombing target. Blackouts were only instituted when there was a warning that the hydrogen-filled zeppelins were silently approaching, but these events were happening all too often, bringing terror to London and its nearby cities. In the distance I heard the muffled sound of exploding bombs and could only hope they would not draw closer.

  Our carriage came to a stop outside our rooms at 221b Baker Street and we hurried up the stairs to dim the light that remained on in our parlor. At the door we heard the sound of a loudly ringing telephone and dashed in, the three of us wondering who would be calling at this late hour and for what reason. From our collective experience in medicine and crime, we knew such calls often brought the worst of news.

  Joanna reached the phone first, with my father and I only a step behind, our ears pricked to catch every word.

  “Yes?” Joanna answered, then, after a brief pause, responded, “Ah, Johnny! How are you, my dear son?”

  She listened intently for a moment before the worry left her face. Only then did she place a hand over the receiver and whisper to us, “He is well.”

  My father and I nevertheless remained concerned, for the lad rarely called home and never after the ten o’clock hour. There had to be a problem of some magnitude. But what?

  Pressing the phone to her ear, Joanna seemed to be concentrating on each word, yet her face remained expressionless. After a long interval, she spoke again. “How very kind of you … Of course. We shall meet you at Paddington Station tomorrow morning … Yes, yes. Until then, my dear son.”

  Placing the phone down, Joanna explained the nature of the call. “What a strange set of events Verner’s death has brought into play.”

  “Pray tell, what?” I asked anxiously.

  “It seems that Johnny and Verner’s son, Thomas, are friends,” Joanna replied. “Poor Thomas is grief-stricken by his father’s passing, and the headmaster at Eton thought it best he be accompanied home by a friend. Our Johnny volunteered without hesitation.”

  “Good show!” my father pronounced proudly.

  “As would be expected of the lad,” I added. “But I am somewhat surprised they are such close friends, for the good Dr. Verner appeared to be well into his middle years and thus his son should be considerably older
than Johnny.”

  “One might think so,” said my father. “But Verner married late in life to a lovely nurse from St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, and his son’s age is in all likelihood close to Johnny’s.”

  Joanna asked, “Would I have been familiar with his wife during my stay at St. Bart’s?”

  “Perhaps,” my father replied. “Her maiden name was Mary Todd, as I recall. She was a head nurse on the medical ward, while you spent your days in the surgery section. Still, your paths may have crossed.”

  “I do believe I remember her,” Joanna said, thinking back in time. “She was somewhat delicate, with a kind face and prematurely graying hair.”

  “That is her.”

  “How sad for such a tragic circumstance to bring us together again.”

  “A tragic circumstance indeed,” my father concurred. “But I must admit that I am relieved that the phone call did not tell of any misgivings for our Johnny.”

  “Of that, I am not certain,” Joanna said.

  “Why so? Was there something amiss in his tone of voice or in the words he spoke?”

  “Nothing that one could detect.”

  “Then what is the basis for your worry?”

  “Maternal instinct,” Joanna said, and without further comment, she drew the curtains and retired for the night.

  7

  Paddington Station

  An early morning rain was beginning to fall as our four-wheeler turned sharply off Edgware Road and onto Praed Street, where Paddington Station was located. We were making good time and well ahead of schedule when traffic came to an abrupt halt, for before us was a line of ambulances offloading patients into St. Mary’s Hospital, which was situated next to the train station.

  “Are these casualties from the war?” I inquired.

  “I think not,” my father replied. “Most likely they are the injured from last night’s bombing raid that took its toll on Surrey.” He pointed to an arriving vehicle that had the county’s name printed on it before adding, “According to the morning newspapers, a nursing home suffered a direct hit, with dozens killed and wounded.”

  “Bombs have no conscience,” said I.

  “Nor do the pilots of the zeppelins,” my father remarked.

  Joanna asked, “Will St. Mary’s be prepared to deal with so many badly wounded patients?”

  “Not all will come here, for there is a mass casualty plan in place that distributes the patients to the major hospitals throughout the greater London area,” my father responded. “But those who are admitted to St. Mary’s will receive the best of care, for it has an excellent staff in both surgery and medicine.”

  “Did you have admitting privileges here?”

  My father nodded. “I held that privilege for many years, as did Alexander Verner. As a matter of fact, it was there that I first met him and became aware of his remarkable diagnostic skills. He could solve the most difficult of cases, as the royal family can attest to.”

  “The royal family, you say?” Joanna asked, leaning forward with interest.

  “Close to the king himself,” my father replied. “A royal, who shall remain nameless, had a dreadful fever of unknown origin. Despite being seen by numerous specialists and undergoing countless tests, no one could come up with a diagnosis. Verner was called in and made the diagnosis of a hidden abscess that was treated surgically and cured. For his efforts, Verner was invited to tea at Buckingham Palace.”

  “That must have been the talk of the hospital,” I ventured.

  “It was, but not because Verner spoke of it, for he never did,” my father reminisced warmly.

  “Doctor-patient confidentiality, I would think,” said Joanna.

  “That and the fact that Alexander Verner was a most humble man who never considered himself extraordinary, although he obviously was.”

  Traffic began moving again and we quickly reached the front entrance to Paddington Station. Hurrying in, I was immediately impressed with the major upgrades the station had undergone, while preserving its basic architecture as much as possible. A number of additional platforms had been built and service kiosks installed, all housed beneath a glazed, curved ceiling that rose to a height of over a hundred feet. For reasons known only to God, the station had been spared damage from the multiple bombing raids. Glancing about, we had no difficulty locating the correct arrival platform, for my father recognized Alexander Verner’s widow standing near a giant, elevated clock. She was a thin, small woman, in her middle years, with snow-white hair and dressed entirely in black. By her side on a short leash was a huge, brown mastiff that had a black snout and a gaping mouth. The massive hound sat on its haunches and carefully eyed anyone who approached.

  “It is unfortunate the mastiff was not with Verner the morning the Germans barged into his office,” I remarked in a low voice.

  “Indeed,” Joanna agreed.

  No introductions were necessary, for Mary Verner seemed to remember us from our time together at St. Bartholomew’s. Despite her very white hair, she had aged well, with her delicate features for the most part unchanged. But the signs of sorrow were obvious, as evidenced by her reddened eyes and the corners of her lips being slightly pulled down. It was with effort that she managed a weak smile.

  “Allow me to offer our deepest sympathy on the passing of your husband,” my father consoled. “He was such a fine doctor and an even finer gentleman.”

  “He thought the world of you as well, John,” Mary responded in a soft voice. “He often told me that if he were to become ill, you would be the doctor he would choose.”

  “That is high praise indeed,” my father said, with a half bow before turning to us. “I take it that you remember my son and his wife, Joanna, from your nursing days at St. Bart’s.”

  “I do indeed,” Mary replied. “I particularly recall Joanna for her skills in the operating room. We were all quite envious of you back then.”

  “Thank you for such a kind remembrance,” said Joanna.

  “Not at all,” Mary went on. “And now you have made quite a name for yourself as a most capable private detective. I was more than pleased to learn from Inspector Lestrade that you are now involved in this detestable crime. I can only hope you will bring those responsible to justice.”

  “I shall do my very best,” Joanna promised as her brow furrowed briefly. “May I ask why the inspector contacted you?”

  “It was I who contacted him,” Mary replied. “I called because I remembered something my husband had told me the evening before his death. While relaxing from his ordeal over brandy, he recalled hearing one of those dreadful people shout the word rot from an upper floor. This occurred as my husband was departing from the patient’s residence. He did not know if the word had significance nor did I, but I thought it best to bring it to the inspector’s attention.”

  “Most wise,” Joanna agreed. “But was it simply rot he overheard or was there a word before or after it?”

  “Just rot as he recalled,” Mary answered. “Is that important?”

  “Perhaps,” Joanna said. “We shall see.”

  Our conversation was interrupted by the approaching train from Eton. We stepped back to allow Mary Verner room to embrace her grieving son. It was the worst of all situations, I thought, as I envisioned a grief-stricken son coming home to a grief-stricken mother, with each trying to somehow comfort the other. A son returning from school was usually a most joyous event. Today it would be sad beyond words.

  Moments later the two lads disembarked and, after waving, hurried over to us. Thomas Verner was small and quite thin, much like his father, except his hair was long and tousled, with a lock hanging over his forehead. By contrast, Johnny Blalock was tall for a boy of twelve, with a handsome, narrow face and a jutting jaw. Yet it was his eyes that caught your attention. They were half lidded and gave him a serious, studious look. For those familiar with a photograph of a young Sherlock Holmes, Johnny could have passed as Sherlock’s twin.

  Thomas raced to his m
other and tightly embraced her, with tears now flowing freely across his cheeks. The boy continued to sob uncontrollably, pausing only to say, “Oh, Mother! Oh, Mother!”

  We decided to take our leave, for there was little we could do to comfort the heartbroken family. But before our departure, Mary asked my father if he would be good enough to serve as a pallbearer at her husband’s funeral. My father was greatly moved and responded that it would be his honor to do so.

  It was only after passing through the station’s front entrance that Johnny and his mother exchanged warm cheek kisses. Joanna then took a moment to straighten Johnny’s tie that had gone a bit askew.

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  “You are welcome,” Joanna said. “Now tell us, how was your trip?”

  “Dreadful,” Johnny replied. “Poor Thomas was inconsolable.”

  “Which is understandable, for he has lost a dear father, much as you did,” Joanna reminded him.

  “The sadness and grief are to be expected, but I see no need for it to be publicly displayed.”

  “Some are not as strong and resolute as you are,” my father remarked. “Nevertheless, it was fortunate he had a close friend to lean upon.”

  “We are not close, but simply acquaintances,” Johnny said candidly. “Since no one else volunteered for the journey, I decided I should, for it was obvious that Thomas would have difficulty traveling alone.”

  “It was still good of you to do so,” my father commended.

  “Yes, it was,” Johnny said and left it at that.

  My father and I exchanged knowing glances, with both of us no doubt thinking the same thought. Not only was Johnny’s appearance remarkably similar to Sherlock Holmes, so was his emotional control. Statement of fact and deductive reasoning took precedence over feelings, which were either pushed aside or absent.

  As we took our seats in a waiting carriage, Johnny asked, “May I know the details of Dr. Verner’s death?”

  “He was tortured and murdered,” replied Joanna.

  “Tortured? How?”

  “With a burning cigarette.”

  “Most painful,” Johnny said, seemingly unmoved by the suffering Verner must have endured. “But why?”