Sherlock Holmes: Work Capitol (Fight Card Sherlock Holmes Book 1)

by Jack Tunney

  Near the high windows along the far wall, old men sat leaning on canes, rheumy eyes contemplating the stages of their lives that had brought them to this point. Women endeavoured to keep feverish young ones from squalling – not that their pitiful cries could rise above the thunderous din.

  Nurses moved about, the reception desk was besieged. The fetid air made one gag, and the beams of afternoon sunlight caught the miasma of dust floating high over the troubled heads, becoming solid shafts that lit on shoulders and faces like a benediction.

  Exiting the hospital required us to cross this teeming scene. We plunged in gamely, though hampered to a certain degree by our ailments. Constant jostling from fellow patients slowed our progress. The doorway ahead, though clogged with people, beckoned with the promise of fresh air and freedom beyond.

  We were little more than halfway across when someone barrelled into me from behind. I was struck solidly on my injured shoulder and gasped in surprised agony, which paralyzed me momentarily. I saw the rude oaf was Arthur Mathews and he made directly for Holmes who was oblivious to his approach.

  Teeth gritted against the pain, I somehow managed to speak loud enough for my friend to hear. "H-Holmes!"

  Sherlock Holmes turned awkwardly on his hampered leg. At that instant Mathews unleashed a wicked right cross-hit. The blow landed squarely with a meaty thud on the left jaw of Holmes who, unprepared, was spun around by the impact and fell to his knees.

  "You've killed me boy!" bellowed Mathews. He threw a crumpled newspaper before Holmes. "And you'll answer for it with blood! The paper's account of the crash shall be your epitaph!"

  He drew back his fist to strike again. I launched myself at his knees, striking Mathews from the rear, and brought him down. The crowd had drawn back and the cold tiles, slick with melted snow did not yield when the head of Mathews snapped forward against them.

  The lunge set my shoulder ablaze with a thousand hot needles. It was worth it as it took the fight out of Mathews long enough for two male orderlies to throw themselves upon him where he lay dazed. He rebelled against their rough treatment, but they were more than a match for his ferocity.

  "You'll pay, Holmes!" roared Mathews and grief coloured his words as he was manhandled from us. "Mark me! You are a dead man!"

  I sprang to the side of Holmes who was struggling to rise. The blow had been, as they papers say, a hot'un on the whistler. Blood dribbled freely from his lips and his gaze had lost its piercing intensity. His eyes were glassy.

  "Paid I have, Watson," he managed weekly. "The man has knocked out my left incisor."

  Through the blood issuing from his mashed lips, I saw the gap in my friend's teeth.

  Not a moment was to be lost. "We must find the tooth!"

  I whipped my head around, eyes intently examining the floor. The crowd which had parted like the Red Sea was closing ranks with each passing second. The tooth would be crushed had it not been destroyed already.

  Holmes spotted it near a chimney sweep's scuffed boot. The man clutched a grotesquely twisted forearm to his breast and it was evident pain had gotten the better of him as he shuffled from foot to foot.

  "Hold, sir!" I roared. "Do not move!"

  I was at the man's side in an instant and retrieved the bloody tooth. Careful to handle it only from the crown, a quick examination revealed it had come out cleanly and did not appear to be cracked. However it had slid a yard or so across the filthy floor and that would not do.

  A woman nearby was nursing a child with a glass feeding bottle which would serve as the instrument of salvation.

  "Madam, I must have that National immediately."

  I snatched the oblong bottle from her coarse hand and, pressing the instrument against my chest, used my free hand to unscrew the top and get the rubber stopper and tubing out. I doused the avulsed tooth with milk until it appeared clean enough. I would require light for the next step.

  After returning the bottle to the irate women, I guided Holmes to the high windows. The old men shambled away and I had Holmes lay upon the bench with his head in my lap. He had smartly wadded his handkerchief into his mouth to stop the bleeding, but that sodden rag now had to go. I dropped it on the floor and got to work.

  "Wide as you can manage, Holmes," I instructed and he complied. I bent to examine his mouth. The bleeding had slowed, but my actions would soon change that. There was the very real chance Holmes might choke on his blood, thus I had to work quickly.

  Manipulating the tooth with the utmost care, I inserted it back into the cavity. Blood flowed freely at once and I could see the working of my friend's throat.

  I plucked off my tie clasp and inserted it into my mouth, turning it this way and that to crudely sterilize it. This done, I used one end of the clasp to gently set the tooth as correctly as I could gauge though splinting would have to wait. Blood welled but the work was done.

  I helped Holmes to sit up and gave him my folded handkerchief to bite down on. This would provide the tooth a soft bed while the periodontal ligament began to knit and would also absorb the blood until coagulation occurred. A suture would complete the process, but that could wait until we were back at Baker Street as this was no longer an emergency and the hospital was already pressed to meet the needs of our fellow Londoners.

  Holmes put a hand to the left side of his face and nodded his thanks. It would be an uncertain thing with the tooth, it would either reattach or die.

  The matter settled for the moment, I turned my attention and my anger toward Mathews. I rose with the intention of confronting him in the examining room where he’d been escorted, giving Holmes had a minute to rest.

  It was no surprise, however, that Holmes was at my side as I crossed the room. He often boasted nothing could deter him when he was on the scent and here was evidence of it as he clutched his bloody jaw, eyes blazing.

  Mathews came at us as we entered. I aimed a fist his way to change his mind. This blow he blocked with expert ease, but left him unprepared for the boot I planted in his groin. That put him down for good. An orderly picked Mathews up and deposited him in a rickety chair.

  Holmes conveyed his desire with the flick of his eyes. I understood his intention.

  "Might we have a word with our associate in private?" asked I of the orderly.

  "'E's a mad bull, sir!" the fair-haired youth replied.

  "I think I've settled him some, my good man." I extended a rolled up note. "Thank you for your time and trouble. We've got him from here."

  The orderly stared hungrily at the money. "T'ain't that easy, sirs. Jerry's gone for the Peelers."

  "That's quite all right." The money changed hands. "We only want a quick word. When the police arrive, they can do with him what they will."

  The man pocketed the money and left us.

  I whirled to face Mathews and gave vent to my anger. "What in the hell game are you playing at?"

  Mathews face was set like stone though tears brimmed in his eyes. "My boys are dead. All is lost."

  "So you assault Holmes?"

  "He was supposed to stop it!" Mathews jabbed a finger at Holmes who stood with his hand pressed to his jaw. The pain was etched in his sharp features, but his eyes sparkled as he regarded his assailant. "He was supposed to solve it. Now I've lost everything!"

  His aggrieved state was clear. "I understand your grief without being able to fathom its depths," said I. "Only, Mathews, you are a man in your early fifties. You might marry again."

  "It's because of Sophie that I'm brought low," said he, lost in his grief. "It's a judgment on me! If I had been kinder to her – my boys! A judgment it is."

  "Nonsense," I replied. "Nigel was murdered. Fred died in the boxing ring – one he stepped into of his own free will. There was nothing Holmes or I could have done in either case. Do not let these tragedies rob you of your honour."

  "What good does honour do me at a time such as this?" A derisive bark followed this query. The tears finally spilled down his cold cheeks as he lost contr
ol of his emotions. "There's no helping the past! It's the boys' future I dedicated myself to since I took their mother from them. Damn my eyes! To what end, I ask you? To what end, my penance and slavery?"

  Holmes caught my eye and inclined his head towards the door, then paused as a sob burst past the lips of Mathews.

  "If only they had known," he wailed. "Instead they let hate fester. I could not turn them from their belief."

  "Known you had beaten their mother to death?" asked Holmes.

  "I used their mother cruelly," said Mathews, the word tumbling faster and fast past his lips. "But I was a changed man devoted to her happiness when she was taken. The boys blamed me and my hard fists. It was fever took her. They were so young, marred by my cursed past. Only Trudy, my daughter, knew the truth. She married a German, but she died in a train wreck before the boys were old enough. I sold my soul for them. I received their hate in return. I bore it. Now their hatred of me has destroyed them."

  Holmes had heard enough and beckoned me to exit with him.

  "We can't spare another moment," said I to Mathews. "In light of your recent losses, we will pretend this attack never took place. Whether or not we will continue this investigation will depend on the humour of Holmes when he's had an opportunity to rebound from his injuries. We will be in touch."

  Mathews dipped his massive head meekly while the tears continued. We left him to his misery.

  The air crackled with frost and it was invigorating to fill our lungs once we were back on Agar Street. Weak sunshine reflecting off the snow dazzled our eyes. The streets were shrouded in white with paths trodden, but not swept. The thick brown fog had returned to brood over all, deepening shadows created by the waning sun.

  Muffled, spectral figures hurried about over the slippery ground. Most carried packages wrapped in brown paper or muted colors suitable to the season. Shops were doing great business beneath their Christmas trimmings. A hansom presented itself for our use and the wintry scene before us went far in dispelling the memory of our last cab ride.

  We did not speak on the ride back to Baker Street. It was vital Holmes not do so anyway. Tired and bruised, the bloody case could wait a few hours so far as I was concerned.

  One man strangled, another beaten to death, the vandalism of the bar, the attack on small Hayden... It was an ugly picture and I lacked the stomach for at that moment.

  Entering our rooms, we were met by an extraordinary site. The sitting room was hung with Christmas finery. Mrs. Hudson had been busy in our absence, and a cheery air pervaded from the green holly with red berries, the festive garland around the windows and a bowl of Christmas crackers on a side table. That venerable woman had laid a bed of embers which would be roaring an instant after I'd attended to it.

  Holmes removed the bloody handkerchief from his swollen, bruised lips and whispered, "It does give one pause."

  NINTH SCRATCH

  Ninety minutes later, I was washing up after having sutured the gums around the loose tooth. Holmes had refused laudanum for the pain, but swished brandy about his mouth liberally as a sterilizing agent. My instruments cleared away, I rolled down my sleeves and joined him by the fire where Holmes was once again marinating his hands in that noxious concoction.

  "I believe I'll take a week's rest as Christmas present to myself," said I.

  "I am most sorry to hear that," said Holmes, working his jaw gingerly. "So close to the end and danger ahead, I would have valued your company."

  "You will stick with the case after what Mathews did to you?"

  "Of course. If one chooses a path of hard knocks, one should not be dissuaded by bumps along the way."

  "Bumps! We've been shot at, thrown from a cab into the street, and you were assaulted."

  "Yet, here we sit. Relatively intact and the last of a case before us."

  "It seems to me as though we've hardly begun," I countered. "We've turned up very little in the way of facts."

  "Not so, Watson. Permit me one hour and we shall see where things stand. Agreed?"

  I consented readily as sleep beckoned and left Holmes to wipe his hands before striding to his lab table.

  It was some two hours later when I awoke to find Holmes ruminating by the fire. His pipe and cigarettes were nowhere in evidence, and I was grateful he had the insight to know smoke was not good for his mouth in its present condition. A brandy snifter with no more than a swallow left in it stood at his elbow.

  I sat across from him and extended my legs to the fire. "You have completed your tests?"

  "I have."

  "And what did they reveal?"

  "How Fred Mathews was killed."

  I bristled. I had not forgotten how Holmes had prevented me from going to the aid of the man. I again made my displeasure known to him in no uncertain terms.

  "You go to the heart of it," replied Holmes, who seemed unfazed by my criticism of his actions during the fight. "Well done."

  I could not accept this flattery under false pretenses and would not be deflected off my course. "If I have scored a bull's eye, it was purely accidental. I assure you. Explain yourself, man."

  Holmes showed no outward emotion. He continued. "Pity. As to your question, I prevented you from going to the aid of Mathews for two reasons. The first is our situation was hardly secure, and betraying too strong allegiance to the man would have been foolhardy while surrounded by Tanner's lackeys. The second reason was there was nothing anyone could have done to save him."

  "Nonsense! The fight could have been stopped to prevent further injury. You know this as well as I."

  "That is incorrect. For you see, Mathews was poisoned."

  "What?"

  "Recall the tacks sticking out through the rubberized ring corner."

  "Yes, you indicated them to me. At the time, I did not know why. And still remain unenlightened."

  "Curare was spread upon the tips. During the fight, Tanner was intent on herding Mathews into that specific corner. Once, he had successfully thrust the man's back against the poisoned tacks, Mathews was dead on his feet. Nothing on earth could have saved him."

  I considered this startling revelation for a moment. There was something about it which did not ring true. "Tanner was the bigger man, the stronger," I observed. "And an accomplished pugilist in his own right. If the death of Mathews was the intent of the match from the outset, why not kill the man in a fashion pertaining to the sport instead of forcing this outcome through trickery? Tanner certainly possessed the skill to do it. For that matter, if poison was to be the instrument of his destruction, why go through with the fight at all?"

  "Now you are close to it."

  "Close to what? I am still in the dark."

  My friend's eyes flashed in his head. "Viciousness. Pure and simple. How does curare claim its victims?"

  "It is a paralytic. A neuromuscular blocking agent hindering impulse transmission between nerves and skeletal muscle. Until the poison leaves the system, the nerves cannot trigger the muscles to act and the muscles are paralyzed. Death is usually a result of suffocation as the muscles controlling the working of the lungs eventually become paralyzed and the victim cannot draw breath."

  Holmes nodded. "Precisely. And the consciousness remains unaffected as the poison claims one muscle group after another."

  "Yes. Also, the muscles of the heart or the intestinal tract remain unaffected."

  "Once administered, Mathews was a dead man, but the goal was not to merely murder him. Rather, he was to suffer the torment of the damned in his last moments. To be utterly aware he was being beaten mercilessly until the poison took his life and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. This was premeditated torture."

  "That is hideous!"

  "In that we are in complete agreement."

  I considered the type of twisted mind capable of such a heinous act. "The devil!"

  "These are the forces we are up against."

  "We are hardly in a state to deal with anyone just now."

&nbs
p; "Again, I am heartily sorry to hear you say so, as the investigation must be resumed tonight. We have had our rest and must return to our work."

  "You can't mean it."

  "I do. The murderer of Nigel and Fred Mathews is free tonight and will remain so if we fail to act."

  "What do you propose?"

  "If you are up for it, we can begin at the sawmill that furnished the boards for Tanner's boxing ring. You might hypothesize any sawmill in London could have provided the wood and no taint of guilt should be attached to the firm without stronger evidence."

  "That is exactly what I was going to say."

  "Ah, but consider. Tanner had constructed a ring for the staging of illegal contests – the possession of which would lead to his arrest, albeit briefly, if the authorities got wind of it. What firm would run the risk of agreeing to the work and sharing the scandal attached to it unless they were able to keep it under their hat? And would Tanner willingly give complete strangers power over him by entrusting knowledge of a criminal offense to them?"

  "It is your contention Tanner is able to ensure their silence."

  "Exactly. We must examine the firm's books in the hopes of uncovering a tie that binds. Lestrade and Scotland Yard cannot do this, so we shall do it for them. We must do our part to help Lestrade along before the holiday, so he might know a moment free of worry. Our gift to him. Can I count on you?"

  "You can." It was to be a simple act of trespass into deserted offices and therefore I foresaw the action as not being terribly taxing.

  Holmes rose from his chair with some difficulty. The hours at his lab table had given his knee and ankle some much needed rest, but they had stiffened as well. If he was hampered by the leg, he did not show it after the initial display of gimpiness. He was a sight to be sure – lame, his face swollen with discoloured patches.

  My shoulder and neck were purple, but easily concealed. We prepared ourselves for the nocturnal mission. As I had lost my revolver in the crash, Holmes pocketed his own after checking the load.

  The air cut like a knife, and we huddled deep within our collars as we sought a cab. They were plentiful, but full. Given the arctic conditions, no one wanted to walk about in the cold. As a result, finding a free cab proved more difficult than usual.