by Steve Hayes
Holmes gave him two half-crowns, then he and Watson climbed out to inspect their surroundings. In the fading light Canal Street looked derelict and isolated. The cobbled street was narrow, with a line of grimy terraced houses facing a peeling line of wooden palings and a murky canal beyond. Watson took one look at the houses, most of which appeared to have been boarded up, and said: ‘I think we’re too late. It looks as if the street has been condemned and everyone moved on.’
‘Not quite everyone,’ said Holmes, and pointed toward the lamp-lit parlour window of a house right at the far end.
They walked toward it. Away to their right, scavenging rats squeaked and scurried between piles of refuse. Watson grimaced. He had been right about the other properties. They were all silent, and in darkness. Clearly Canal Street had been condemned, save for this one house – number twenty-seven.
Holmes rapped on the door, which badly needed repainting. After a few moments it opened and a small woman of about twenty-five peered warily around it. By the poor light they saw she had a pale face with tired blue eyes, a small, pointed nose and a thin, sad mouth. Her hair was a watery blond and pulled back in a bun, with an untidy spill of ringlets hanging as bangs. She wore a blouse buttoned to the throat and a full black skirt.
‘Mrs Kidd?’ asked Holmes.
She hesitated momentarily before saying: ‘Y-Yes … Can I help you?’
‘I believe you can, Mrs Kidd. I would like to question you about the events of two nights ago.’
She recoiled from him, her eyelids fluttered and she swayed dangerously. Watson recognized all the signs and pushed past Holmes so that he could catch her before she collapsed. She slumped into his arms, and he was shocked by how thin and frail she was.
‘Subtlety is not always your strong point, Holmes,’ he grumbled.
At the sound of his voice the woman recovered enough to ask: ‘Are you the police?’
‘No,’ said Holmes. ‘And I should tell you at the outset that if you are honest with me, then the police will play no part in this.’
Mrs Kidd frowned at him. ‘If blackmail’s your game, you’re wasting your time. We barely have enough for food and lodging.’
‘We are not here to make your life any more difficult, madam. Quite the reverse – if you co-operate.’
She considered that for a moment, then nodded. ‘I will,’ she said. ‘And if truth be told, it will be a relief to do so. Please, gentlemen, come in.’
As they stepped into a narrow passage, a weak, wheezy voice called out from the lamp-lit parlour. ‘Vi? Is everything …’ The words were cut off by a prolonged fit of coughing. ‘Is everything all right?’
She whispered: ‘My husband, Emmanuel. He’s ill, and sleeps downstairs in the parlour, where it is warmer.’ Then, louder: ‘Yes, Manny, it’s all right.’
They followed her down the dark hallway, past a flight of stairs, until they reached a squalid little kitchen. She walked with a severe limp in her left leg, in just the manner Holmes had described in the grounds of Witton Abbey.
At last she gestured for them to sit at the wooden table. ‘You’re certain you’re not from the police?’ she said quietly.
‘No,’ Holmes said. Introducing himself and Watson, he added: ‘We have been investigating a recent spate of jewel thefts, and I have come to the conclusion that you were responsible for their execution.’
She smiled bitterly. ‘I can see it will do me no good to deny it.’
‘No. But it may do you considerable good to tell me everything you know.’
‘I will, sir. Honest. And as I just told you, I’ll be happy to do it. I am not of larcenous character, gentlemen, and what I have done – what circumstances have forced me to do – has brought me great unhappiness.’
She fell silent for a while, as if bringing order to her thoughts. Then:
‘You are right, Mr Holmes. I was born with a suppleness and balance that cannot be taught. My father spotted the ability in me when I was no more than five or six, and often took me into the city or to various racecourses, where I would walk a hastily erected tightrope or hang upside down from temporary railings for an audience who would, if the mood was upon them, give a penny or two in appreciation. I was a born performer, sir, it was all I ever wanted to do, so it was no hardship for me. But an unhappy home-life, caused mainly by my father’s fondness for the bottle, eventually persuaded me that when I was old enough I would do as I had read in stories, and run away to the circus.
‘This I did when I was fourteen. I found work with Castello’s Circus, and began my real apprenticeship as part of an act called the Tumbling Tornadoes.
‘Thereafter my life became one of constant travel. We played the provinces in all weathers, performing every day, all day. Throughout the racing season we could always be found at Epsom or Moulsey, Egham or Ascot. We even went abroad. And if we were lucky, we found work in pantomime at Christmas, which helped see us through the winter. It was a hard life, and one that put little money in one’s pocket, but I loved it. I had wonderful friends, and more important, I had Manny.’
‘Did he work for the circus?’ Holmes asked.
Mrs Kidd nodded. ‘He was as fine a juggler and plate-spinner as you have ever seen. He was also a dear, kind, gentle man. Despite the big difference in our ages, we were attracted to each other from the start. Manny was always considerate and loving, and when eventually he asked me to marry him I eagerly accepted. For two years we could not have been happier. Then he developed a bad, persistent cough and began to lose weight….’
Watson, who’d been listening intently, now murmured: ‘Symptoms of consumption.’
‘Aye,’ Mrs Kidd said. ‘Consumption it was. We had no money to treat him, but our employer was a good man. He paid for a doctor to examine Manny and gave us the use of a spare wagon. This meant Manny could still travel with us even though he could no longer perform, and I was able to nurse him when I wasn’t on stage. But now that I was the sole breadwinner, I tried to make extra money by taking a more active part in the act. We incorporated a new element, a trick known as the “Flying Leap for Life”. It involved jumping from one trapeze to another, performing one or more somersaults in mid-air and then being caught by a partner, who was hanging from the second trapeze. We rehearsed the trick a number of times without mishap, but for safety’s sake, we retained a net to catch me in case I fell.
‘The first time we performed the trick before an audience it went perfectly. But during a later performance that same day, disaster struck. As I leapt from my pedestal-board on to the trapeze, I felt the gearing shake and knew that for some reason the ropes to which it was fastened had come loose. I heard the crowd gasp with horror. Then one side of the trapeze dropped and I lost my grip. I landed on the edge of the safety net and was flung sideways, to the sawdust ring below. I broke my hip and ankle, and my career as an aerialist was over.’
Holmes arched a questioning eyebrow but didn’t say anything.
‘I was devastated,’ Mrs Kidd continued. ‘For now I had no means of earning the money that Manny and I needed to survive. And what else was I good for? The performer’s life was the only one I had ever known. You can imagine my delight when, though the fall left me with a limp, I discovered that I still retained most of my abilities.
‘Unfortunately, Mr Castello was of the opinion that audiences did not want to see a performer shuffling to and from the ring. It would remind them of the very real consequences when things go wrong, and the circus was there to provide an escape from such realities. I understood his reasoning perfectly, and could not argue against it.
‘He gave me a small gift of money with which I managed to secure this property, and we have lived here, from hand to mouth, ever since. It has not been easy on me, Mr Holmes. But it has been far harder on poor Manny. He needs treatment, badly. But I could never afford to pay for it.’
‘Until fate intervened,’ said Holmes.
‘Yes. I was returning from the grocer’s one day when I sens
ed that I was being followed. Sure enough, I’d no sooner closed the front door when there was a knock. I answered it, and there stood a man I’d never seen before.’
‘Did he introduce himself?’ asked Holmes.
‘He gave his name as Smith, but I fear it was an alias.’
‘Was he a large man?’
‘Yes, sir. Do you know him?’
‘I know the prints he leaves beside riverbanks.’
‘Well, he said that he’d heard how I once worked for the circus and was still quite a competent aerialist despite my injury. Hoping he might be from another circus, I said yes and invited him in. But he quickly dashed my hopes. He explained that he knew I was in financial difficulties, and might be able to help. But I had to be discreet, because his proposition was shady at best.
‘I should have shown him the door at once, of course. I realize that now. But at the time, with Manny so sick and me at my wits end, I told myself that it would do no harm to at least hear his proposition.’
‘Which was…?’
‘He said he was interested in a pair of earrings. He knew where they were kept but could not get to them, which is where I came in. He would take me to the property, I would gain access, steal the item and in return he would give me ten pounds.
‘Well, it was a miraculous sum of money, and when I thought of all the good it could do my husband – I can make no excuses for what I did. I was simply desperate. So I embarked upon a series of robberies, the fourth and most recent of which was committed two nights ago.’
‘This man Smith,’ Holmes said, ‘does he always take you to the scene of the robberies?’
‘Yes, sir. He’d arrive unannounced with a sketch of the item he wanted me to steal and a five-pound note. I would receive the same amount again when I delivered the item to him.’
‘And he never gave any indication as to the identity of his employer? Where he came from?’
‘Never, sir. We rarely spoke of anything but the job at hand. He said it was better that way, for both our sakes.’
‘Did he have a foreign accent?’
‘No, sir. He was a Londoner through and through.’ She dug out a soiled handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I have been a fool, sirs, and for that I will be eternally sorry. But the money has made Manny’s suffering a little easier to bear, and though it may sound inappropriate, for that reason I don’t regret my actions.’
Holmes frowned and pondered a moment. ‘You have played a very dangerous game, Mrs Kidd,’ he then said. ‘Had you been caught, had you fallen and injured or killed yourself in the commission of the crimes, you would have left your husband in an even less enviable position than the one he already occupies. However, I understand why you embarked upon the course you did. But I suggest that you do not submit to this man Smith again, no matter how sorely you need the money.’
‘He is an unpleasant man, Mr Holmes, and will not take kindly to a refusal.’
‘Then tell him this, Mrs Kidd – that you received a visit from Sherlock Holmes, who warned you in no uncertain terms that the next time you committed a crime, he would turn you over to the authorities. Tell him that I am on to him and if he has any sense he will keep a very low profile from now on.’
‘I will do that, sir.’
Holmes rose. ‘You have been a very foolish woman, Mrs Kidd, and I hope that from now on you will consider this a lesson learned.’
‘I will, sir. And I thank you for understanding.’
‘How is your husband at present, Mrs Kidd?’ asked Watson, hearing another prolonged coughing fit.
‘I fear he will not live to see out the summer,’ she replied tearfully.
‘Then clearly he needs more care than you can give him. It may be possible to remove him to an infirmary where—’
‘Infirmaries cost money, Doctor.’
‘Nevertheless, he needs rest, fresh air and nutrition if he is to stand any chance at all.’ Watson hesitated before adding: ‘It may be possible for me to arrange it, and in such a way that it will cost you little if anything.’
‘Charity?’ she asked disdainfully.
‘Not charity, Mrs Kidd,’ Holmes said. ‘Let us call it payment for services rendered, for while your answers in themselves will not help me to solve the case, the fact that I have successfully deprived the real culprit of his most important tool – you – is worth far more than that.’
‘You have done all that you can,’ Watson said gently. ‘But now your husband needs professional care. And I suggest you let me arrange it.’
‘Very well, Doctor.’
‘Excellent. I will have someone come for him tomorrow.’
Holmes picked up his hat. ‘We must be going,’ he said abruptly, uncomfortable as always in the presence of any show of emotion. ‘Good night, Mrs Kidd.’
They left.
As they walked back through the darkness to their waiting cab, Holmes said: ‘Tell me, Watson. Is it really possible for you to obtain free care for Emmanuel Kidd?’
‘I doubt it. But I have some savings, and …’
Holmes smiled. ‘You will carry the burden yourself, is that it?’
‘Scoff if you like. But you were right. You told me not to judge the thief before I knew all the facts.’
‘Then we shall share the cost of Mr Kidd’s care between us, my friend. Your meagre pension of less than twelve shillings a day will only stretch so far, and while I may not be exactly wealthy, I am at least financially comfortable enough to go Dutch.’
Touched by his friend’s generosity, Watson gave him a sidelong glance. ‘You know, Holmes, there are times when you are as charitable as you are wise. But sometimes I question your wisdom. I mean, was it really wise to tell Mrs Kidd to tell this man Smith that you’re on to him?’
‘Quite,’ said Holmes. ‘I wanted to make sure the man left her alone. If he thinks that I may find him through her, he will give her a wide berth in future. If we are lucky, he will drop out of sight altogether.’
‘But surely, he is the next link in the chain?’
‘No. My feeling is that we are dealing with someone who leaves little to chance. Unless I am mistaken, this man Smith would have been hired through a whole series of other go-betweens. He will know very little in the grand scheme of things. But if word should get back to the real mastermind that I am on to them, we may yet smoke them out into the open.’
‘Just like your bees, eh, Holmes?’
‘Precisely.’
CHAPTER 10
Obsession
Watson spent much of the following morning making preparations for Emmanuel Kidd to be removed to the St Marylebone Infirmary, where he knew some of the staff from his days as a student at the University of London. As he had predicted, a generous donation to the Nightingale Fund – the charitable organization which financed the infirmary – ensured that arrangements were completed swiftly.
He felt happy with himself as he limped back to Baker Street and collected the morning’s mail from the hallway table. Consumption was not fatal in every case, and there was some evidence to suggest that a liberal diet of milk and cream, eggs, meat and vegetables – even raw eggs swallowed whole with a little sherry, pepper or salt on them – could boost the body’s natural defences enough to fight it off. In the case of Emmanuel Kidd, however, Watson felt that it would be a long, arduous struggle. He could only hope that the man still possessed enough stamina to see it through.
There was no sign of Holmes when he let himself into their sitting room. He set his own post down on his chair and took the letters addressed to Holmes – and a rolled-up, dogeared newspaper from America – across to his friend’s bedroom door. Watson’s room lay on the second floor. Holmes had his spartan sleeping quarters just off their sitting room, behind a door next to the fireplace.
‘Holmes!’ he called. ‘The post has arrived!’
There was no response.
Frowning, Watson knocked on the door. ‘Are you all right, old chap?’
Aga
in, no answer.
He glanced around, looking for the note Holmes was sure to have left had he gone out. There wasn’t one, and he felt a sudden stir of unease. Early on in their relationship Holmes had confessed to bouts of depression during which he would remain cloistered in silence for days on end. But those times normally were the result of inactivity, when he hadn’t any interesting cases to occupy him. What if his friend were ill now?
‘Holmes? Shall I bring your post to you?’ he called through the door.
The silence was deafening. He turned away, trying to convince himself that his companion was merely sleeping late, as usual. But it was very close to lunchtime – late even by Holmes’s bohemian standards.
He returned to the door, knocked and said: ‘Holmes, are you all right? I’m coming in.’
He opened the door and poked his head inside.
Holmes’s room was a study in basics. There was a single bed, a bedside table, a straight-backed chair, a tin dispatch box, and little else. Realizing that Holmes must have gone out, perhaps using his private exit set into the left-hand wall, Watson felt relieved. He turned to go, then froze.
‘Good God …’ he murmured.
Holmes had covered one wall in photographs, newspaper and magazine clippings and what appeared to be whole reams of handwritten notes all pertaining to Elaina Montague. It was a virtual shrine to the woman.
Watson shook his head in amazement. It was in man’s nature to seek a mate, of course, but in all the years he had known Holmes, he’d only ever shown true emotion for one woman, the American opera singer Irene Adler. To Holmes the female of the species was something to be tolerated, dealt with, observed, but never, ever loved. And yet here he had shown an interest in Elaina Montague that was more akin to obsession.
Not for the first time, Watson wondered just how well he really knew his companion. He knew very little of Holmes’s personal life, just that he was descended from a family of country squires and had a brother named Mycroft, who was seven years his senior and was some kind of unspecified but clearly high-ranking civil servant.