He chattered affably away as I followed. While I had known Mayhew in Afghanistan, he had spent many years in service all over the Subcontinent, including a stint doing translation work for the Viceroy. He had been invalided home some two years previously, after catching a nasty injury in a skirmish with a particularly vicious gang of dacoits in Uttar Pradesh, and had been crafting his memoirs ever since; he had contacted me shortly after his return to seek advice on the practicalities of publishing. His recollection of the officers he had worked with was compendious, and while he was perfectly capable of keeping an official secret, in personal matters he was too talkative to be discreet. I suspected that his reminiscences, when finished, would prove unpublishable despite my best advice.
Over the meal, served with immense decorum by the club’s Indian servants, we chatted about the exploits of our various mutual acquaintances. After a while, I steered the conversation to the reason for my presence. I said, ‘I’ve run into an officer recently at Sir Newnham Speight’s, a Major Bradbury. I believe he’s been home for seven years or so. Did he cross your orbit out East at all?’
‘Bradbury,’ mused Mayhew. ‘Yes, I think I might know the chap. Isn’t his first name Cuthbert or Crispin or Chad or some such?’
‘I understand it’s Clement,’ I said.
‘Clement! I knew it was one of those saintly types. Yes, I recollect the fellow. Served under Moran, didn’t he? By Jove,’ he added excitably, ‘is this one of Holmes’s cases? Does he have Bradbury in his sights now?’
I said, ‘The Major isn’t under any criminal suspicion. But anything you can tell me about him would be helpful.’
‘Ah,’ said Mayhew. ‘Playing your cards close to your chest, old man. I understand. Well, Bradbury was considered a good officer, for the most part – patriotic, tolerably brave, an able administrator and a moderately good tactician. Very popular with the natives, too, which isn’t to be sneezed at. He used to lay it on thick to his men about treating the temples and the local holy men with the proper respect.’
‘Frankly, I wish more of the officers I knew had done the same,’ I said.
‘Oh, I’m with you, old boy. But in his case there was more to it than just brotherly sentiment. Bradbury was fascinated by the local religions, although he didn’t distinguish very well between them. He knew enough not to feed the Hindus beef or the Muslims pork, but the finer theological distinctions eluded him. He was in love with the idea of the mysterious orient and its teachings, and he didn’t much care how they were mixed as long as he could drink them in.’
‘There’s virtue in an open mind, too,’ I said, although after meeting Gerald Floke I suspected that a person’s mind could be too open.
Mayhew grinned as he echoed my thoughts. ‘Well, old boy, there’s keeping an open mind and there’s being played for a holy fool, isn’t there? Did Bradbury tell you about that guru in Calcutta?’
‘He seems to have a lot of colourful stories,’ I said.
‘Ha! Well, I’m not saying he didn’t see some remarkable things, but my opinion is that most of them were stage-managed for his benefit. He once told me that the natives had their own name for him – “the White Gull” – which he took for a great compliment. Personally, I don’t think they meant the bird. Once it became known that he took an interest in the miracles performed by the sadhus, yogis and the like, they were queuing up outside his door, and leaving very satisfied once he’d tipped them a paisa apiece. The man must have seen more rope tricks than I’ve had hot curries. His big mistake was giving the fellows cash, you see – we always advised against it. That’s what identified him as a soft touch.
‘From what I heard, that guru of his had a fine bag of tricks, but nothing much you couldn’t see done at the Empire Theatre in Leicester Square on a Saturday night. To Bradbury, though, the fact that an Indian was doing the conjuring made the whole thing a mystical experience. The fellow took him in completely.
‘What he was building up to, though, was asking Bradbury to give him the best part of his savings to build an ashram, where he’d teach all comers, native or European, the path to true enlightenment. Of course Bradbury handed over the goods, and that was when the fellow said he needed to pop into a cave for a couple of months to meditate. His famous vanishing act followed, and poor old Bradbury bought it completely. He was amazed to discover how holy the fellow must have been, and though he did make some enquiries among the man’s acolytes about what might have happened to his rupees, he eventually accepted that the guru must have had them on him when he ascended, or whatever he was supposed to have done.
‘That left Bradbury short, of course, and from what I hear he’s still short to this day. He’s always been one for the cards, and the guru had been giving him tips about making karma work in his favour, or some such nonsense. He was convinced he could win it back, but not surprisingly it didn’t happen. Indeed, I have my suspicions that it wasn’t just the guru who was fleecing the poor chap. And… well, it was a little while after the cave incident that the rumours started.’
‘The rumours?’ I asked, dutifully. It was obvious that Mayhew was relishing this, but the tale was so fascinating that I could not begrudge him his enjoyment. Nor did I resent supplying the punctuation in someone else’s monologue, given that that was my usual role when Holmes was in full flow.
‘Well, Bradbury had been appointed treasurer at one of the officers’ clubs, you see. And some of the more eagle-eyed members began to find… gaps in the accounts. As I say, Bradbury was known as a skilful administrator, a man who kept his eye on the ball, but by this time he was rather distracted by his own problems. Some of his brother officers accused him of embezzlement, and it all became rather nasty. In the end it was put about that Bradbury had just been careless, and it was a native steward who’d actually been taking the money, but after that he was always under a cloud. Certainly he was never put in a position of trust again. A couple of years later he retired and came home.’
Mayhew sat back and gave me a self-satisfied smile while I thought about what his story might imply. At the very least, Bradbury had a history of placing his faith in profoundly unreliable people, with a certain wilful blindness to the outcome, which might explain his fierce insistence that Thomas Kellway had gone to Venus. On the other hand, given his need for money and the past suspicions against him, his involvement in a fraud was not out of the question either. He had, after all, had Sebastian Moran as an example to follow into criminal endeavour.
Remembering what Lestrade suspected had happened to Garforth, I asked, ‘Were there any stories of disappearances surrounding the embezzlement case? Possible witnesses, perhaps?’
Mayhew whistled. ‘Disappearances? Nothing that I recall, old chap. Why, what on earth do you suspect old Bradbury of doing?’
‘Nothing, I hope,’ I said. ‘Certainly nothing we can be sure of at this stage. If something comes of it, I’ll be sure to let you know.’
‘Please do.’ Mayhew smiled. ‘I could always do with more material to alarm my publishers with. Don’t worry, though, I’ll keep it under my hat for now.’
As I stood to leave and shook his hand, he added, ‘Incidentally, Watson… I wasn’t sure whether to say, but if there’s a disappearance involved I probably shouldn’t keep it back. A little bird tells me Bradbury may have been running up more gambling debts – you know, recently, here in London. It’s just a whisper of a rumour, but… still. You never know what might turn out to be important, do you?’
I took a cab back to Baker Street, feeling a little bloated after what had indeed been an excellent, though spicy, lunch. As I arrived at 221B, I had to stand aside to make way for two policemen carrying a pile of splintered planking into the house from a police van which had stopped outside.
‘Whatever is going on, Mrs Hudson?’ I asked our landlady, who was standing watching the proceedings with some distress.
‘I’d be most obliged if you could ask Mr Holmes the same question, sir,’ she told me with so
me emphasis.
I climbed the stairs, passing another pair of policemen on their way down, and entered our sitting room only by clambering over a large pile of broken board. More such stacks stood around the room, placed in positions seemingly calculated to be as inconvenient as possible. All the wood was heavily stained with pitch, and spattered with familiar shades of paint. Holmes and Lestrade stood by the fire, the former looking most pleased with himself while the latter seemed both puzzled and resigned. The pose was so characteristic of them both that I might have burst out laughing, had I not been so very indignant about the misuse of my living space.
I said, ‘Is this the timber from Garforth’s studio? What on earth is it doing here?’
‘Ah, Watson!’ exclaimed Holmes. ‘Lestrade has kindly allowed me to take custody of some of the evidence from the scene of the crime. Whatever this wooden construction may have been, it was important enough for Garforth to have built it, and for somebody to have destroyed it. I intend to rebuild it and find out why.’
I looked at Lestrade, who shook his head gloomily. ‘You know what he’s like when he has a trail to follow, Doctor. I’d have left it all at Garforth’s place if it were me, but Mr Holmes has got it into his head to find out all about it for us.’
The four policemen entered again, carrying between them two more piles of wood, which, at Holmes’s direction, they set down directly in front of my favourite chair. They saluted Lestrade and tramped away again, not to return this time.
‘For the Yard’s part,’ Lestrade continued as if he had not been interrupted, ‘I think our most practical plan will be to find that vehicle, if we can. Either it’s abandoned or someone’s been busy cleaning it up, and either of those might get noticed. I don’t think there’s much more we can learn from all this stuff, anyway.’
My friend replied, ‘Oh, but it has taught me so much already, Lestrade.’
‘Nothing you care to share with Her Majesty’s constabulary, I suppose.’
‘When the time is right, my dear inspector. First I must test my theories, and assure myself that they match up against the facts.’
‘I don’t know why I asked,’ Lestrade observed rudely. ‘Well, I’ll be going back to the Yard, then. We’ve always room for you there, Dr Watson, if he starts using your bedroom as a lumber-room.’ And, smiling at his witticism, the inspector left.
‘Really, Holmes,’ I began indignantly, ‘this is insupportable—’
‘What did you learn from Captain Mayhew, Watson?’ asked Holmes, disarming me at once. ‘Did he tell you about Major Bradbury’s gambling debts?’
‘But Holmes…’ I stared at him in astonishment, all thought of planking forgotten. ‘I didn’t tell you I was meeting Mayhew.’
He smiled. ‘You did not. But there is a faint stain on your shirt-cuff, and the tint of turmeric is most distinctive. You mentioned that you were lunching at a club, and very few London clubs have chefs that routinely employ that spice in their cuisine. Those dishes which use it are a taste acquired largely by former officers in India. You dislike the company at the Oriental Club and the ambience at the East India Club, though you are a member of both, but tolerate them at the Anglo-Indian, where you are not, for the sake of your occasional lunches with Captain Arnold Mayhew. And Mayhew has a nose for scandal second only in London to that of Langdale Pike, from whom I learned about Bradbury’s gaming habit by letter on my return from Camden this morning.’
He showed me a sheet of paper bearing a brief note in the celebrated gossipmonger’s effete hand. ‘Indeed, in this case I have no doubt your source is the better one, as Pike’s information is largely confined to London society and he rarely strays beyond it. Hence, I have no doubt, your pressing appointment with Captain Mayhew today, and hence my eagerness to learn what you now know of Bradbury’s record in the service.’
I said, ‘I’ll tell you, Holmes, but not in here. It feels like my home’s been invaded by an army of railway sleepers. Let’s go to Harrington’s.’
Though impatient to proceed with his self-appointed task, Holmes acquiesced, and shortly we were ensconced in a window-seat at our nearest tea-shop with a warm pot and some scones. Though Holmes and I rarely patronised it, preferring the restaurants of the Strand or the comforts of our own hearth, it was a cosy place, with many little booths and nooks for customers preferring privacy, and I had always found it congenial enough.
I told Holmes about the misfortune into which Bradbury’s impressionable nature had led him in Calcutta, and the rumours of his embezzlement at the officers’ club. Holmes seemed unsurprised. He said, ‘There are worse afflictions than heathen religion that a man can acquire in India, Watson, and worse vices than gambling that can deprive him of money. I would that Colonel Moran had returned with no more deplorable habits than those. But – I say! Here comes the Reverend Small.’
And into the shop bustled the little cleric, looking rather tense and pale. Without preamble he said, ‘Mr Holmes, Dr Watson – I am sorry to disturb you – your landlady said I might find you here. I must ask for your help, I am afraid.’ His voice quavered and he sat down, unbidden, at our table. ‘That poisonous young asp Skinner has been making the most unconscionable accusations – casting quite pernicious aspersions – quite unsupportable, of course, but some in the Society are so credulous – and if word were to reach my parishioners, or heaven forfend, the bishop—’
‘Calm yourself, please, Mr Small,’ said Holmes. ‘Hi, waiter, more tea for my clerical friend! Pray compose yourself, sir, and tell your story from the beginning.’
With the help of the tea, and some medicinal brandy from the hip-flask which I happened to have with me, and from which his shaking hands added rather more to the cup than was perhaps strictly necessary, the Reverend Small achieved the required composure to continue.
‘Mr Skinner has been… Well, the assertions he has been making are so ludicrous I hardly know how to describe them,’ he began. ‘He believes that I murdered Thomas Kellway. Young Mr Rhyne called at my vicarage this morning to tell me of it. He seemed quite distracted about the business, though I cannot imagine that it was wholly upon my account. Perhaps he fears that he will be the next to be falsely accused.’
‘As an investigator, Skinner’s methods are idiosyncratic,’ Holmes noted, ‘and his conclusions may border on the phantasmagorical. How does he believe you committed this crime?’
The cleric gave a short, rather desperate laugh. ‘With a curse, if you can believe it, Mr Holmes. Mr Beech told him some libellous nonsense about my comportment during our watch together, and he – he seems to have concluded…’
‘Ah.’ Holmes nodded. ‘Beech made a similar observation to Watson and myself. He alleged that you were chanting outside the room, in a most unchristian fashion.’
Small coloured. ‘Well, it would appear that that is also what he told Skinner.’
It had seemed to me at the time that Beech was attempting to steer Holmes and myself towards just such a conclusion, so it was natural that Skinner, Beech’s own man, should have reached it. If anything it was surprising that it had taken him so long, but Skinner’s mind evidently revolved in unusual ways.
‘And why does Mr Skinner believe that you would… hex Mr Kellway?’ Holmes asked, barely keeping his amusement hidden. ‘What motive does he attribute to you?’
‘He has concocted a most ludicrous fairy-tale to justify himself, Mr Holmes,’ the cleric quavered. ‘Are you familiar with the legend of Anne Heybourne, the ghost of Keelefort House?’
‘Mr Skinner was kind enough to give us the pertinent details last night,’ said Holmes. ‘Not that I would trust his unsupported word, you understand, but it seems that such a tradition was at least attested as evidence in a murder trial twelve years ago. Supposedly Anne was killed by Parliamentary soldiers in the seventeenth century, and as a result her spirit is said to have goaded the last owner of Keelefort House under its original name into murdering a prominent Parliamentarian. She sounds oddly interested i
n politics, for one so surely beyond its reach.’
‘I cannot attest to its historical veracity, but as a story it is much older than those twelve years.’ Small sighed. ‘I collect antique books of folklore, and I have seen the legend mentioned in them more than once. It seems that Skinner has unearthed evidence – of what kind and how he came by it, I do not know – that one of the soldiers who murdered Anne was a Yorkshireman, and he believes that her unquiet spirit now bears the same undiscriminating animus towards the denizens of that county as it does towards the representatives of Parliament. Mr Kellway, of course, also hails from Yorkshire.’
‘And he believes you were induced to murder by the ghost, as Percival Heybourne claimed to be?’ I asked in astonishment.
Small shuddered. ‘I cannot say what he truly believes, Doctor, but that is without doubt what he told Sir Newnham and Mr Rhyne this morning. By his account the ghost has been tormenting me on my every visit to Parapluvium House, urging me to homicidal fury, and he will not accept any of my denials. At best, he says, I may have been attempting to exorcise the Annexe of her presence, and somehow – not that I have ever heard any account, in theology, folklore or the most lurid of popular fiction that would suggest such a thing is possible – botched the ritual such that it banished Kellway into another realm instead. But mostly he is inclined to believe that I acted malignantly.’
I tried to reassure him. ‘But of course such a risible accusation would never convince a policeman, Mr Small, let alone a judge or jury. You are quite safe from any consequence more grave than social embarrassment, though I appreciate that that can be difficult enough…’
But Small was shaking his head. ‘If I were a surgeon, Dr Watson, or a bricklayer for that matter, I am sure you would be correct, but as a priest the supernatural is my stock-in-trade. My membership of Sir Newnham’s Society has already damaged my repute among a few of my more backward parishioners, and I regret to say they might seize upon such an allegation as an opportunity to discredit me altogether. Some of the old laws against witchcraft are still on the statute books, and sadly some in the Church still see this more as a wise precaution than an anachronism. Oh, criminal charges would be inconceivable – you are correct about that, of course – but as far as my position is concerned… of that, I fear, I would be much less confident.’
Sherlock Holmes--The Vanishing Man Page 14
