by Anna Elliott
45. THINGS DO NOT GO AS PLANNED
WATSON
At about half past eight I dismounted from my cab at the corner of Portland Place and Weymouth Street. The paved walkway was wet and slippery. The light from the corner gas lantern cast a yellow tinge onto the surface of the newly-fallen snow. Footprints from a few passers-by were visible in the slush that lay around me, ankle deep, covering the walkway pavers. From Portland Street up to the two-columned portico at the front of the Chinese Legation, however, there were more footprints, indicating the presence of many recent arrivals.
Standing on the pavement, I tried to angle my vision so as to catch a glimpse behind the curtains at the windows of the ground floor. I could see shadows moving from time to time, silhouetted vaguely against the curtains. Good, I thought. People were inside.
My plan was to walk down to the rear entrance, which would lie behind the shed at the narrow passageway that separated the rear of the Legation building from its nearest neighbor. I had brought along Holmes’s set of lockpicks and I felt their weight in my coat pocket. I had practiced with them on the lock behind the outside door to our kitchen and felt sure that I would be able to fumble my way to a successful entry. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I’d thought.
I was on the point of setting off from the street corner when I was aware of a cab coming to a stop behind me, the horse nickering and shaking its harness. I debated momentarily whether I ought to continue with my plan, or whether I ought to cross the street so as to be unobserved. The new arrival would, I felt sure, have come to visit the Chinese Legation.
Then came a Scottish brogue that I recognized. “Just wait there, cabbie. I will not be long.”
It was the voice of Sir Halliday Macartney.
I shrank back for a moment, turning away, but just at that moment, Sir Halliday saw me.
“Why it’s Dr. Watson,” he said. “Were you the man who pounded on the door this afternoon?”
“Yes, I was here this afternoon,” I said. “I wish I had thought to telephone you or visit you at your home to make my appeal, instead of coming here. I have been at my wits’ end with worry over Holmes. He has gone missing, as you may or may not know.”
“And you thought he was here.” Halliday’s forked gray beard quivered with badly-concealed amusement, as he shook his head in sympathy. “Come in with me, Doctor, and I shall endeavor to set your mind at ease on that score. Though I fear there is little I can do to assist you in learning the whereabouts of Mr. Holmes.”
At the entrance he placed a hand on my chest before knocking. “You and I are Englishmen,” he said, “and I have every hope that Mr. Holmes will locate the missing opium, even though he refused Ernshaw’s offer to do so. I value Holmes’s life and safety. Yet I must ask you to remember that in this building I am under an obligation to the emperor and must act accordingly. When we are inside, please bear in mind that others are listening at all times.”
Whereupon he knocked, the door opened, and he ushered me inside, shouldering past the surprised Chinese steward, who, with a disapproving look, stood aside.
Sir Halliday explained to the steward that he had come to take me on a brief tour of the facility; he wanted to have a western medical opinion on the healthful aspects of the surroundings.
“I shall accompany you both,” the man said, in perfect English.
We strode up two flights of stairs to the top floor, and down an ill-lit hallway, with doors on either side resembling those of a cheap hotel. “You are welcome to try any of these rooms,” said Sir Halliday. “This is the servants’ quarter.”
Determined to be thorough, I went into every room. The steward had his master key on his keyring and unlocked each room in turn. All were small and simple in the manner of servants’ quarters, and it was apparent that no prisoner was being held on the top floor.
“Please let me know if you see anything suspicious,” Sir Halliday whispered at one unguarded moment, when we were out of earshot of the steward, “but take care that we are not overheard.”
We went through the same procedure on the next floor down, with the same result.
The rooms on the ground floor were, as might be expected, larger and better furnished than those on the upper floors. We bypassed the dining room and two parlors, where there appeared to be a gathering of some sort, and stopped in front of a swinging door at the entrance to the kitchen. After a moment’s wait while one of the waiters came out, we entered. There was bustling activity around a stove with bubbling pots, but this activity ceased when the chef and others caught sight of us. Then, after a few words in Chinese from the steward, the activity resumed. I took note of the cabinets, the storage shelves, and the external pantry. I saw nothing unusual.
“No prisoner here,” said Macartney. “Would you like to see the basement?”
I nodded. “I shall also want to see the exit from the basement. The footprints or lack thereof will indicate whether someone has recently been hustled out of what might be a place of incarceration. I do not doubt your sincerity, Sir Halliday, but it is possible that there are those within this building that do not have your best interests at heart and may be playing their own game.”
“Oh, it’s hardly likely,” he responded, and I had the impression that the words were just a trifle louder than they needed to be, intended for the steward’s ears or for others that might at the moment be unseen.
“But before we go downstairs,” he continued, “perhaps you would like to see the meeting rooms. They are in use by a number of guests. Though I cannot possibly imagine that Holmes would be held prisoner amidst a public gathering of this nature.”
“I should like to see who is attending all the same,” I said. I particularly wanted to see if Hasson, the lascar owner of the Red Dragon opium den, was present. I was sure I would recognize his massive figure.
Sir Halliday first showed me the dining room, where all the occupants, including the waiters, appeared to be oriental. The guests were well attired, prosperous in appearance, with an air of dignity and confidence, the surface gloss that wealth brings. All eyes were on a lovely young woman in robes and fan, who was dancing slowly and gracefully to the oddly sonorous music of a stringed instrument. “A traditional court dance,” Sir Halliday said. “These guests are subscribers to a theatrical group. The dancer and her compatriots hope the guests will provide financial backing for the next production.”
Until we left, all eyes remained on the dancer. I was sure no one had noticed our intrusion.
We stopped before a pair of double doors, which were shut, although I could hear voices coming from inside. “The next room is a parlor of sorts,” Sir Halliday said. “It has been modified to resemble a small lecture hall. Once a month we invite enterprising Chinese citizens who may have investment opportunities for their countrymen.”
He opened one of the doors and we edged inside behind the back row of onlookers, who were chattering among themselves, for the presentation had not yet begun. At the head of the room stood a man, manipulating an apparatus used for weaving.
Sir Halliday said, “This is a demonstration of a machine that can weave silk fabric more rapidly and cheaply than the old hand looms. The operator up there will soon make a demonstration of it, or rather a small replica created for demonstration purposes, and then he will distribute samples.”
“You have seen this before?” I asked.
“Several times. The operator is the inventor, and his family is a friend of the emperor.”
I walked to the end of the rows of chairs and looked down each. Once again, I saw no one that I recognized, and nothing out of the ordinary.
Sir Halliday showed me to the last door off the main hall. “This is the library,” he said. Then, drawing me aside to where we were out of the steward’s hearing, he continued, “There is another gathering here, and it is the reason why I came here tonight, for I think it may have a connection to the matter we discussed at the Diogenes Club. The principal here is Chinese, and t
he investment he is propounding concerns a new venture, a partnership with a German company.”
The steward was drawing closer to us as Sir Halliday went on: “It offers hope for those who have succumbed to the addictive powers of opium. As a physician, you may already know of it.”
My senses quickened at this, both because of the covert manner that Sir Halliday had briefly adopted, and because of the mention of opium. “My patients do not include opium sufferers,” I said, taking pains to include the steward in my address, “though it might be as well to make myself aware.”
Soon we were in the library, joining a cluster of hopeful-looking Chinese men who were listening to one of their countrymen: a stooped, aged fellow whose long gray pigtail braid dangled oddly above the black fabric of his evening coat. There was a marked surface deformity of the left side of his face, where skin and flesh had been scarred and pitted and misshapen, by a burn suffered in an accident of some kind. I noticed that he held his left arm close to his side, as though it, too, had been injured and failed to recover fully.
None of the men in his audience appeared to take any notice of these impairments. The faces of those listening were rapt and hopeful, with a respect and attentiveness that bordered on worshipful expectation. The man was speaking Chinese in a quiet, husky whisper, and I wondered if whatever accident he had suffered had affected his vocal cords.
He saw Macartney and switched to English immediately.
“Sir Halliday! I have something for you.” He reached into his pocket and drew out an envelope, most conspicuously sealed with red wax.
Sir Halliday took the envelope and pocketed it without comment. Then he said, “My companion is Dr. John Watson. I brought him here because as a physician he may have an interest in what you are presenting here this evening.”
The little man turned his black eyes on me, and I took an instant dislike to him. I had the fleeting impression of a cobra that has just awakened.
“Ah, Doctor,” he said. “I am Ming Donghai, humble and obedient servant of his serene excellency the son of heaven, Emperor of China.” He went on, in the same whispery tone, “Your patients suffer from opium addiction?”
“Not many,” I said.
He nodded and turned immediately to the man on his right, a tall, young, robust Chinese fellow who appeared to be in excellent health. “You should observe Kai-chen, here. He was once brought low by opium, through no fault of his own, I must hasten to add. I brought him to my clinic, along the English seashore. My treatment and his exercise regimen have resulted in a complete cure, as you can see. Kai-chen, shake hands with Dr. Watson.”
The young man smiled and took my hand in a powerful grip. His eyes were clear, his complexion bright and firm, his smile broad and confident. Knowing what I did of several good men who had been defeated by opium, it was difficult to believe that this man had ever been an addict.
“I have my health,” said Kai-chen. “I came to it out of a loathsome weakness, but the Doctor has taught me that in weakness there can be strength.”
“I am happy for you,” I said.
“The addictive powers and ill effects come from the impurities inherent in the unrefined opium product,” Ming said. “The treatment offering the most promise for the least effort is one that does away with the impurities. My partners in Germany made the first discovery, and they seek to spread the treatment to foreign lands. I am testing it for them here in England, trying to help those poor unfortunates who are unable to help themselves. Perhaps you would like to observe the treatment personally? Our clinic will be open for medical observers next week.”
Out of politeness, and respect for Sir Halliday’s obviously sensitive relationship with one so close to the Emperor of China, I declined as politely as I could. Still, something about the way he looked at me put me off-balance, and I found myself staring at his misshapen face, then hastily looked away down to his left arm, which he held stiffly at his side.
Ming saw. “You rightly observe, doctor, that my own physique is far from perfect. I suffered an injury to my arm in China. One day there may be a cure. Meanwhile, I endeavor to derive strength from my weakness, as young Kai-chen here has done from his. Strength of character, you would call it.” He gave a dismissive nod, and went on briskly: “Now is there anything else I can show you before I return to my audience?”
I declined.
When Sir Halliday and I were once again in the hallway, he said, “Now we just have the basement for you to examine. And as you correctly pointed out, the entrance to the outside.”
The steward led us downstairs, where two overhead electric bulbs cast sufficient light for me to see the walls of stone, the coal cellar, undisturbed, and the pathway to the door, which was clean and free from disturbance. “No one has passed inside, it seems,” said Macartney.
“Yet it might have been recently swept,” I said. “It would be as well to open the entry door.”
I opened the door myself. Behind it, four stone steps led up to a hatchway. They were clean. There was a broom alongside.
I pushed up at the hatchway, trying to force it open. Something heavy resisted my effort. I pushed again, quicker and harder.
“What is it, Doctor?” asked Sir Halliday.
A small quantity of snow had seeped through the opening produced by my efforts to lift the hatchway. “Perhaps snow has slid down from the roof of the house and piled up on the hatchway,” I said. I bent my knees and got my back and shoulder beneath the inner surface. Crouching, I then sprang upward, giving the hatchway door a powerful shove. A cascade of snow spilled over the edge of a widening gap. I tried again.
On my third attempt the hatchway flew open. From the other side, something tumbled down with more snow, landing at my feet and almost knocking me over.
Red blood stains on white snow clumps lay at my feet, clinging to the body of a man.
Behind me, Macartney and the steward were both staring, horrified expressions on their faces.
“A dead man!” the steward said, in perfect English.
I turned the body over and recognized the face, its features twisted in frozen pain, pale and stark beneath the dim light of the overhead bulb. It was the face of Inspector Plank.
46. A LINK TO A LETTER
London, Thursday, January 13, 1898
LUCY
“I should be used to this by now.”
Morning sunlight filtered in through the windows as I paced from one end of the sitting room to the other. A chimney sweep was pushing his cart past in the street outside. A public disinfector’s van rolled past, likely on the way to fumigate the house of someone diagnosed with smallpox or scarlet fever.
I pivoted, walking back towards the mantle. Becky was upstairs, unpacking her suitcase in the company of Prince. I could hear her opening and closing drawers, and Prince’s nails clicking across the floor.
“On practically every case we’ve worked on together, Holmes throws himself head first into desperate danger. Or gets shot. Or abducted by the enemy. And he always gets himself out of danger again.”
Logically, I shouldn’t be this shaken by the news of Holmes’s kidnapping. But logic was doing precisely nothing to dispel the knot of fear pulling tight under my ribcage, making it impossible for me to draw a full breath.
My hands were shaking, too, and there was a cold, shivering feeling inside me that wouldn’t go away—
“Hey.” Jack had been watching me from the sofa—commendably not telling me that I was going to wear a hole in the carpet if I kept pacing back and forth. But now he stood up, coming to slip an arm around me.
“You’re thinking about the funeral parlor.”
I shut my eyes for a second, leaning against him. He was right. I hadn’t even realized it myself, but he was right. The image sat in my mind like a cold rock: Holmes, chained up in a dank and frigid basement just like the one where I’d been held captive just two short months ago.
“You got out of there.” Jack’s voice was steady, cer
tain. “You’ll get your father back, too.”
I looked up at him. “I couldn’t have gotten out of there without you.”
“Nah, you were the strong one. All I did was show up and almost get electrocuted.”
It wasn’t true, but it made me smile just a fraction—and it loosened the knot inside me enough that I could drop down onto the sofa, pulling Jack down beside me.
“Tell me about Benjamin Davies and Abelard Shirley.”
Jack looked at me. “Are you sure?”
I nodded. “There’s nothing I can do for my father right now, and I need something else to think about.”
“All right. Though there’s not a lot to tell.” Jack leaned back against the sofa. “I put out word on the streets that I was looking for Benjamin Davies, but so far nothing’s turned up.”
“Would it, though? Presumably he’s hoping not to be found by the police.”
Jack raised one shoulder. “Maybe so, but there’s enough thugs for hire and petty crooks out there who’d love for the police to owe them a favor. Pretty sure I would have heard something if Davies had been seen around town or was looking to renew old acquaintances with any of the gangs.”
“So he’s gone to ground.”
“Looks that way. Got out of Newgate Prison two months ago and hasn’t been heard from since.”
“Newgate?” I frowned.
“That’s right. Why?”
“Nothing.” Something had tugged briefly at the back of my mind, but now it was gone. “What about his solicitor?”
“Not much there, either.” Jack glanced at me. “I might have gone round to his office to talk to him while you and Becky were in Shellingford.”
“I see. And did this talk include the words, ‘Make you see stars for a week?’”
Jack smiled briefly but shook his head. “I didn’t even see him. His clerk said he’s been on circuit lately in the north, but even now that he’s back in London, he spends most of his days at Temple—”
Bar was what he probably said. Temple Bar in Westminster was the location of the High Court of Chancery. But Jack’s voice was drowned out completely by the sudden realization that had just struck me like a dash of cold water.