Die Again, Mr Holmes

by Anna Elliott

  “Are you sure this is a good idea, Lucy?” Becky asked.

  The night before, we had managed to get away from the docks without being seen. Not that that was any great achievement of stealth. The fire had spread to two of the neighboring warehouse buildings, and in the chaos, as dock workers and villagers alike worked feverishly to put out the flames, an entire brass marching band could have passed through without being seen.

  Miraculously, no one had been seriously injured and no other lives lost. But this morning the entire village was buzzing with the news of Lord Lynley’s death.

  Since the fire had started at the back of the warehouse and the office had been in the front, it had survived the blaze with the least amount of damage. His lordship’s body had been discovered when those fighting the flames had broken in, and—according to what Bill had said back at the hotel when he’d brought up our breakfast—thus far, no one was questioning the idea that Lord Lynley had taken his own life.

  “We don’t have a choice. I have to report what we know to the police.”

  Which—also according to Bill—consisted of the chief constable and a single sergeant who assisted him in his duties.

  “I need to give him the papers I took from the warehouse. They’re evidence, after all.” I studied Becky’s face. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

  She wasn’t coughing or showing any other signs of illness from the smoke we’d breathed last night, but she still didn’t seem like herself.

  “I’m fine.” Becky started up the narrow flagstone pathway that led to the police station. “Let’s go in.”

  The station door was locked, though, and no one answered our knocks.

  “Should we try next door?” Becky asked.

  I considered. Most likely, Chief Constable Slade and his subordinate were still down at the docks, dealing with the investigation into the fire and Lord Lynley’s death.

  There was his wife, though. I remembered Mrs. Slade, sobbing and clutching Mr. Seewald’s bottle of medicine as though it were a life preserver and she was drowning in the ocean.

  I sighed. There were times when investigating crimes was exhilarating—and others when it just made you feel like a snake.

  But set against the idea of questioning someone as fragile as Mrs. Slade was the look I’d seen pass between Chief Constable Slade and Mr. Seewald: the murderous fury on the chief constable’s face; the smug satisfaction lacing the chemist’s smile.

  I could hand the evidence over to Chief Constable Slade, but that didn’t mean he was in a position to see justice done.

  “We can at least knock and see whether she’ll speak to us,” I told Becky.

  I was expecting a housemaid, but instead it was Emily Slade herself who answered the door.

  It was past ten in the morning, but she still wore a nightdress and dressing gown, both made of thick black cotton and edged with black ribbons. Her dark hair hung down in untidy straggles over her shoulders, and her feet were bare.

  “Mrs. Slade?” I asked.

  She looked from me to Becky, a slight frown puckering her brow. “I’m sorry, do I know you?” Her voice wasn’t curious or surprised so much as dull. Flat. As though she had long since given up on taking any interest in whatever life brought her way.

  I hadn’t gotten a very good look at her face the day before beneath her veil. Seen up close, she looked younger than her husband, maybe thirty or thirty-five, with small, neat features that might at one time have been pretty. Now, though, her face was stamped with the same indelible marks of grief as her husband’s. Lines of pain bracketed the corners of her mouth, and deep purple shadows showed like bruises under her eyes.

  “No, we haven’t met.” I spoke as gently as possible. “But I was hoping that we might talk to you, just for a short while.”

  Mrs. Slade’s eyes moved from me to Becky and then back again, her gaze as dully uninterested as her voice had been. Then she shrugged, her thin shoulders slumping.

  “If you like. Come in.” She stepped back, allowing us entrance into the house.

  The interior was dim, but instantly the odors of dust, stale air, and old grease from cooking washed over me.

  “I’m sorry.” Mrs. Slade led the way inside. “You’ll have to find your own place to sit and put up with not having anything to eat or drink. I let our maidservant go. I couldn’t bear having someone underfoot in the house all the time. But now there’s no one to do any of the work and I’m alone all day long, and that’s even worse.”

  Her voice wavered as she gestured to the cottage’s front room.

  There were a couch and two chairs in the sitting room, but all three were piled high with an array of what looked like bed linens and other laundry, some of it dirty, some clean. Newspapers and magazines lay in stacks on the floor. Half-drunk cups of tea and plates with uneaten slices of toast littered the tables, and the rest of the furniture was thick with dust.

  “That’s all right,” Becky said.

  I knew she wasn’t oblivious to the pain in Mrs. Slade’s eyes or the almost palpable cloud of misery that seemed to hang over the house any more than I was. But she still spoke cheerfully.

  “We can sit on the floor, can’t we, Lucy? We don’t mind. It will be like having a picnic.”

  Mrs. Slade’s gaze moved to Becky and, for the first time, her dull eyes warmed. The faintest trace of a smile curved the edges of her lips. “You’re a sweet child. My Amelia had blonde hair, too, although it wasn’t quite as light a shade as yours.”

  Her voice shook again on the last words.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  I had already noticed the one clean, well-maintained spot on the mantle; it held a framed photograph of a little girl of five or six, holding a bouquet of flowers and staring at the camera with an expression that said she’d far rather be allowed to run out and play.

  “Thank you.” Mrs. Slade raised one hand and scrubbed tiredly at her eyes. She sank onto one of the chairs, ignoring the pile of dirty linens and looked down at her own heavy black dressing gown as though she were seeing it for the first time. “It’s funny.” Her mouth twisted slightly. “I remember my sisters and I would laugh at an aunt of mine for wearing mourning clothes at night, as well as during the day. She was a Tartar for not leaving a task half done, and we used to say that she had to be thorough even about her mourning. But now I can see her point.”

  Becky moved to stand beside her and put one hand over hers. “My mother died. My brother told me it was all right to feel sad. But that she wouldn’t want me to be sad all the time. He said she’d want me to be happy, too.”

  Mrs. Slade blinked, staring at Becky.

  I turned, starting to shift one of the piles of laundry and other clutter from one side of the sofa, then froze.

  On a small table next to the sofa’s arm, something metallic caught my eye from among the plates of stale food and half-drunk cups of tea.

  I picked it up, all the fine hair on the back of my neck prickling.

  The item inside was made of metal, and heavy in my hand. A sixteen-pointed Brunswick star topped with a crown and blazoned with Queen Victoria’s initials in the center.

  I was holding the helmet plate from a London Metropolitan Police constable’s uniform.

  Before I could move, the cottage’s front door flew open, hard enough to bang against the wall.

  Chief Constable Slade stood in the doorway, glaring, his face so dark with fury I had to check the instinct to take a step back.

  “What do you think you’re doing here?”

  Mrs. Slade sprang to her feet.

  “William!” Where her voice had been dully choked with grief just a few moments ago, she now spoke with a sharp edge. “Not in front of the little girl! What are you thinking? You’ll frighten her!”

  The chief constable gaped at his wife in astonishment.

  “It’s all right.” I was still holding the brass helmet plate, but I palmed it, keeping it unseen as I stepped forward. “It w
as really you I wished to speak to, Chief Constable. Maybe we could talk outside? Or in the station next door?”

  Mrs. Slade frowned, her mouth turning downwards in a stubborn line. “Let the child stay, at least.” She turned to Becky. “If you’d like to?”

  Becky gave me a questioning glance, and I nodded.

  “Yes, thank you,” Becky said.

  “Good.” Mrs. Slade turned to a messy writing table that stood against one wall and started to shift some of the piles of papers. “I know I have a book of paper dolls here somewhere.”

  Chief Constable Slade closed his mouth with a click. Muscles played in his jaw as he turned back to me. “Outside.” His voice was a rough growl. “Now.”

  32. A LINK TO LONDON

  LUCY

  Chief Constable Slade’s brows formed an almost perfectly horizontal slash across his forehead.

  “I should lock you up for obstruction of justice and tampering with evidence.”

  We were next door to the Slades’ cottage, seated in the low-ceilinged main room that served as the police station’s central office.

  Chief Constable Slade sat at his desk, glowering down at the sheaf of papers I had given him. “No matter whose daughter you are.”

  I had come to Shellingford prepared to encounter something along these lines. In addition to the suicide note from Lord Lynley, the chief constable was glaring down at a notarized document from Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, as well as a letter from Holmes himself, identifying me and issuing a request—or knowing Holmes, closer to an order—that I be given every assistance in my investigation into Alice Gordon’s disappearance.

  “You could certainly do that,” I said. “But then I would immediately send a telegraph message to Scotland Yard, and you would have to explain to them, and not just to me, why and how you’re being blackmailed into turning a blind eye to the opium smuggling that’s been going on at this port.”

  Chief Constable Slade’s head snapped up, his mouth opening and closing before he managed to force words out. “What—how—”

  “I assume the opium is being smuggled in to avoid the cost of import taxes,” I said. “Otherwise, the business would be legal. Dirty and morally reprehensible, but completely within the bounds of the law. Which would mean there would be no need to bother with blackmailing the local law enforcement officer.”

  Slade continued to stare at me, his eyes bulging.

  I held up the London Police helmet plate that I’d found in his living room. “You would also have to explain how and why you came to be in possession of part of a dead policeman’s uniform.”

  The color drained from his face, leaving it ashen, with unhealthy blotches in his cheeks. He hardened his jaw. “That doesn’t prove anything—”

  “My own husband is a police officer with Scotland Yard.” Despite his bluster, I could see the underlying fear in the chief constable’s manner. I tried to speak gently. “I know what the uniform looks like. I also know that this number—” I rubbed my thumb across the row of numbers at the bottom of the plate “—is the particular identification number of Inspector John Swafford, who was found murdered down at the Docklands in London less than a week ago. He was promoted through the ranks and no longer wore the constable’s uniform. But I have a photograph of him soon after he joined the force, wearing a helmet with this exact number on it.”

  Chief Constable Slade took several shallow rapid breaths, but he didn’t speak.

  I kept going, shifting my hand just slightly so that it was within easy reach of the Ladysmith I had in my bag.

  I might feel horribly sorry for Slade and his wife. But I’d also known men to commit murder with far less motive than the chief constable had, and I didn’t want the engraving on my tombstone to read, Here lies Lucy Kelly. She was sympathetic but stupid.

  “Was Inspector Swafford here? Did he find out about the smuggling?”

  “No!” His voice burst out, hoarse and desperate. “What you’re really asking is whether or not I killed him.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes. “I didn’t. As God’s my witness, I didn’t kill him. Inspector Swafford was never here. I never even laid eyes on him. But I’m afraid—” He took a shuddering breath. “I’m afraid I may have sent his brother to his death.”

  33. A THREAT

  LUCY

  I faced the chief constable across the desk between us. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?”

  Slade swallowed, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. When he spoke, his voice was low and uneven, but he seemed to have made up his mind to speak freely.

  “A man came to see me last week. He said his name was Tom Swafford, and he’d been a seaman on some of the ships that had put into harbor here.”

  “Some of the ships that imported smuggled opium?”

  Slade’s head dipped in a short, jerky nod. “That’s it. He’d started off as a seaman, then gotten sucked into the business of selling the dirty stuff—bringing it down to London to distribute.”

  I thought of the three opium ships from India that had been—supposedly—lost at sea. “But then he thought to cut himself in on a bigger share of the profits?”

  The chief constable nodded again. “He managed to get his hands on some extra cargo. He didn’t give me all the details. But he’d planned on selling it. Only his employers—the ones running the trade up here—got wind of it and didn’t take kindly to being robbed. Tried to have him killed—knifed—down on the London Streets. He showed me the marks on his back. He barely got away with his life. That’s what sent him to his brother.”

  “Inspector John Swafford, of Scotland Yard?”

  Slade’s throat bobbed as he swallowed again. “Yes. His brother—Inspector John Swafford—wanted to protect Tom from going to prison. He said he couldn’t be seen to help him, not without losing his own place on the police force. He came up here with Tom just after Christmas, though he wouldn’t show himself—had Tom give me a letter and the badge off of his helmet as proof Tom was telling the truth. John said he was going back to London, but he wanted to break up the smuggling ring at both ends—here and in London. And I thought—” His voice cracked. “I thought that maybe this was my chance to break free. If the London police wanted to get involved, maybe there was a way to cut the smuggling ring off at the root without any of the blame falling on me. Without any harm coming to Emily.”

  The chief constable’s voice had turned almost pleading, but then he shook his head, a quick spasm twisting the corners of his mouth. “I told Tom he could sleep in the cells back there at night for safety.” The chief constable nodded towards a door at the back of the room. “Then in the morning he could go down to the harbor and put out the word that he had some opium for sale. I told him I’d protect him. I said that either I or Constable Meadows would be watching at all times. He said he’d take me up on it, that he’d be back to spend the night in a cell. He just wanted to go out for a bit. But he didn’t come back. He just disappeared.” Slade’s face worked. “I never saw him again.”

  I took a breath. I could have filled an entire telephone directory with the questions I had. But one took priority.

  “Did you somehow suggest to Lady Lynley that she consult me about Alice Gordon’s disappearance?”

  Slade’s head snapped up and he stared at me all over again. “But what—how did you—”

  “It’s too much of a coincidence otherwise. That I should happen to be called into a case in the exact location of the spot where Tom Swafford—the brother of a man whose murder my father is investigating—disappeared.”

  The chief constable ran both hands across his face, his breath going out in a shaky rush.

  “I heard that Alice Gordon had gone missing.”

  I frowned. “Lady Lynley said that she hadn’t reported the matter to the police.”

  Chief Constable Slade snorted, sounding momentarily less desperate and more like he must have done before this nightmare had come into his life. “Lad
y Lynley doesn’t remember that the sky is blue half the time.”

  “She’s in the habit of taking laudanum as well?” I was fairly certain I already knew the answer.

  “That’s how she and my wife got acquainted. Of course, Lady Lynley’s too grand a lady to do her own shopping at Seewald’s, but I heard His Lordship was determined to get her to give up the habit, too. Cut off her spending money and ordered the servants not to buy it for her. So she got desperate. Used to get my Emily to buy her an extra bottle, then come around here to collect it.” He took a breath. “I heard her, a couple of months back, sitting right there in my front room and prattling on about a friend of hers who’d had the good luck to meet the daughter of Sherlock Holmes. Then last week, when Tom Swafford came to see me, he was talking about his brother, who was such an important man at Scotland Yard that he was looking into a case for the great Sherlock Holmes himself—involving diamond smuggling, no less. And when Alice Gordon went missing—”

  “So you had your wife remind Lady Lynley that she knew someone with a connection to Holmes,” I finished for him.

  Slade looked at me, his eyes bleak. “I thought … I don’t know what I thought.” He scrubbed his hands down his face. “I knew it was a long chance at best, but I hoped maybe Mr. Holmes himself would be interested enough to come up here. But now I’ve dragged you into this. You and the little girl—”

  “You, yourself, don’t know who is behind the opium smuggling?”

  He shook his head. “I know the filthy stuff’s coming in through our port here. But my hands are tied.”

  “Because of your wife?” I asked.

  The chief constable’s gaze went involuntarily to the station house window. Through a side window into the cottage next door, I could see Becky sitting with Mrs. Slade and cutting paper doll clothes from a book.

  A spasm of pain twisted Chief Constable Slade’s rugged face. “Yes. I suppose you heard our daughter died a year ago last fall. Emily’s … she’s not been right, ever since. But when it first happened, she was half out of her head with grief. Wouldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. The doctor gave her something to help her rest at night.”