by Geri Schear
How far less squeamish women are compared with the male of the species.
Lestrade stopped by for a drink after dinner and asked if I still meant to go ahead with my plan.
“Yes,” I said, “I must.”
He nodded, sipped his drink. After a few moments he said, “Well, I shall be there at your side, Mr Holmes. This isn’t the sort of thing a man ought to do on his own.”
“Thank you, Inspector,” Watson said, smirking. “I’m sure Holmes is very relieved to have a friend with him.”
“You do not mean to attend yourself, Doctor?” Lestrade said.
“Holmes will find you more than adequate support.” Watson said. “My duty is to the living, not the dead. Frankly, I think executions are an abomination. ‘Thou shalt not kill.’” He smiled ruefully. “It seems my religious upbringing has deeper roots than I sometimes credit.”
After Lestrade left, Watson and I sat in a morose - on my part, certainly - silence for some time. At length my friend said,
“What is it that troubles you, Holmes? Is it just the execution? That would be a perfectly understandable cause for distress on its own, but is there something more?”
“I do not anticipate Watteau’s execution with any great relish, Watson. I confess I am dreading it; but it is not that, not alone. I am troubled that there is still no sign of Rickman. Beatrice grows increasingly unsettled in Sussex and it seems unfair to have her stay there indefinitely. Stevens is due back in Hatton Garden on Friday and while Davenport will do his best to keep our friends safe, I cannot help but be anxious.”
“No, I quite understand.”
“It is one of your greatest gifts, friend Watson. You always do understand and you never try to pretend otherwise.”
“I need to stop filling your glass if you’re going to say such nice things to me, Holmes.”
“Ha!”
We chuckled together and fell into our familiar, comfortable silence.
A short time later he said, “How is Beatrice?”
“She is well. She says she is well, but I sense her restlessness. I cannot say I blame her; I should loathe being forced away from London for an indefinite period, particularly if it were not my own choice.” I rubbed my eyes with my knuckles. “She tells me I should do my job and not worry about her.”
“Well then...”
“She is only telling me what she thinks I want to hear. She wants me to be able to focus on my work without fretting about her safety. Damnation! The whole marriage lark is of the very devil.”
He laughed most unsympathetically.
“Poor Holmes. All these years of treating women with disdain, telling yourself they are inferior, and here you are as much at the mercy of one as any other husband.”
My mouth could not decide whether to grimace or grin and I ended up with some bizarre mixture of both.
“It is not funny, Watson.”
He rose, swigged the last of his whisky, and said, “It’s a little bit funny, Holmes. Good night.”
That was four hours ago. I have heard the chimes ring two o’clock and still I cannot sleep. My mind cannot settle.
I would have tomorrow over. Today, I should say.
It is today.
Tuesday 24 May 1898
I slept wretchedly, which is hardly surprising. Lestrade picked me up in his car and we travelled together to the gaol.
Time seemed to stretch out like a long piece of elastic and then suddenly it snapped back upon itself. We waited in the cold, a small group of us, until the chimes rang out the hour. Or did the chimes ring later? I cannot seem to recall.
For all the death and destruction I have looked upon over the years, nothing has ever seemed more grotesque than this state-sanctioned killing.
Lestrade introduced me to the hangman, Mr James Billington. “Tha’ need have no apprehension, Mr Holmes,” he said in his Yorkshire accent. “’T’will all be over as quick and easy as you please. ’Tis a matter of mathematical precision.”
Watteau, it must be said, was surprisingly calm. He nodded at me quite genially, and climbed the gallows. His hands were strapped down at his sides with leather handcuffs. Billington, incongruously, asked if he was comfortable. Watteau smiled and nodded. His collar was removed with exquisite gentleness and this was tucked into his waistband.
Only when the yellow bag was placed over his head did Watteau’s chest start to heave and collapse under the weight of his fear. Still, he made no sound. Not even when the noose was placed around his neck and positioned with the knot beneath his ear. Then came the drop and the twitch and it was all over.
It was horrid.
Lestrade handed me a flask and I took a long mouthful of whisky. I handed it back to him and he took an equal measure.
“Come along, old friend,” he said, gently. “Let’s get you home.”
Wednesday 25 May 1898
Beatrice telephoned this afternoon: the Queen has asked her to attend Gladstone’s funeral this Saturday. “I cannot refuse Her Majesty,” she says. She tries not to sound relieved.
I suggested she stay at Windsor while she is here and return to Sussex as soon as the Queen can release her.
“That is a dreadful idea, Sherlock,” she said. “Who is to look after the boys while I am freezing and starving in that monstrous old castle? No, I shall stay in Wimpole Street and they shall stay with me. I will still have Davenport and Simms with me.”
What can I say? Should I be truculent? Overly cautious? She will do whatever she wills, whether I like it or no.
“Well, then,” I said. “Come home. London is dull without you.”
Saturday May 28 1898
Gladstone’s funeral. I did not attend. The boys, accompanied by Davenport and Simms, are confined to Wimpole Street for the moment. Beatrice is surrounded by royal and state officials. I must trust they will do their job. While the Queen had no great fondness for the late Prime Minister, I suppose at her age any death is a reminder of her own mortality. She likes to keep all her loved ones nearby at such times.
Beatrice telephoned from Windsor half an hour ago to say she is on her way back to Wimpole Street. The Queen has supplied her with a carriage so she has refused my offer of an escort. I shall call upon her this evening and we shall dine together.
Dear God. This is my fault. I should have done my job better.
How? Why?
I am incoherent with rage and grief.
I cannot write.
This death is my fault.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Monday 6 June 1898
There is one thing I have learned this year. Something there is that is worse than attending an execution: Attending the funeral of someone... Of someone one regards.
We gathered at the Kensal Green Cemetery. There was a spitting of snow in the air, even this late in the year, and the sky looked bruised.
The usual inanities ensued. Prayers and the like. No one wept, at least not overtly. I was conscious of eyes watching me, wanting to assess my reaction. I would not give them the satisfaction.
As soon as the coffin was lowered into the ground, I turned and left before anyone could speak to me.
Tuesday 7 June 1898
It was almost dawn before I fell asleep and so my response when Watson shook me awake at eight o’clock was less than cordial.
“The telephone, Holmes,” he said. “It is urgent.”
Glaser’s voice crackled on the line. “Mr Holmes? Mr Holmes? Is that you? It’s Rickman... Can you come?”
I dressed in a hurry and rushed to Hatton Garden. Watson, silent, anxious at my side.
We hurried up the steps into Schwartz’s workshop. A small, silent group met us and parted to reveal Avery Rickman. The thing that had been Avery Rickman.
The monochroma
tic light turned the scene into a tableau. That bench, the bench where I sat when I first came here, was overturned on the floor. One of the man’s shoes had fallen off and lay on the ground in a puddle of urine and faeces. Slivers of sunlight picked out the hairs on the rope and the knots in the stout wooden beam. There, amid the pouches of tobacco, hung a grotesque thing: the corpse. The neck was unnaturally stretched, the face livid.
Watson pulled over a chair and climbed up to examine the body.
“Dead for hours,” he said.
“Is it all right if we cut him down?” Glaser asked.
I nodded.
The body was in full rigor and when they cut him from the beam, he toppled like a grotesque carved statue, like a monolith from Stonehenge. The men laid him on the floor. I examined his neck and the beam. “Suicide,” I said. “He brought the rope with him. There are fibres under his coat around his shoulder and under his arm where he carried it.
“Who found the body?”
“Daniel.”
Solberg was sitting on a chair in the back room. His face was the colour of sour milk. The rabbi held a cup of cherry-sweetened tea to his lips, but the jeweller shook his head.
I pulled up a chair and faced the man.
“I am sorry to trouble you, Mr Solberg,” I said. “I have only a few questions.”
He nodded.
“Were you alone when you found the body?”
“Yes.”
“What time was it?”
“Around half-seven. I am always the first in. I like to work when it is quiet, before anyone else arrives.”
“And you have a key?”
“Yes. I’ve always had one. I was Reb Mordechai’s manager and Leah saw no reason to change anything after he died.”
“Leah?”
“Mordechai’s widow,” Glaser said. “She took over the business when her husband died.”
“When you arrived, was the door locked?”
Solberg frowned. “I don’t remember... Yes, it must have been. I mean, I would have been surprised if it hadn’t and I had no sense that anything was amiss until I came in and I...” He swallowed. “I saw him.”
Watson took the man’s pulse and said, “You’ve had a bad shock. If there’s nothing else, Holmes, I think Mr Solberg should go home and rest.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
The rabbi led the shaken man out. A short while later the corpse was removed. There was nothing on the body. No identification, no letters, no suicide note.
His clothes were expensive but past their prime. They stank of cheap alcohol and tobacco. He was well nourished and his soft hands were without calluses. His shoes were two years old and had been re-heeled twice. They were long past needing to be done again.
“A man who was once affluent but has come down in the world. His change in fortune is recent: You can tell by the age of his clothes and his shoes. A man who can afford tailoring and footwear of this quality will buy new when fashions change or when the garments show signs of age. He has not done so. The cut of his coat is excellent and was tailored to fit him; the sleeves, you see, are the perfect length, and yet you see the tear in the lining was repaired by someone with very poor sewing skills.”
“A wife?”
“Perhaps. A woman, anyway. She has some rudimentary skills. No man would manage half so well unless he were a tailor, and then he’d do far better.”
“That is true,” Watson said. “Most soldiers can sew, but they only have one basic stitch. This stitching assays a style of sorts.”
“She is not accomplished though,” I said. “The stitches are uneven and there are no less than three drops of blood on the seam. She pricked her fingers.”
A quote from something I learned many years ago came back to me, “By the pricking of my thumbs something evil this way comes,” I muttered.
“Macbeth?” Watson said, recognising it.”It’s wicked, I think. Not ‘evil’.”
I shrugged. “Well, he is dead, and by his own hand. The timing is curious, don’t you agree?”
“The timing?”
“The day after the funeral.”
“You think he was driven by guilt?”
“Have you another theory?”
“No.”
In the cab, shaking. Even now, hours later, I cannot seem to get warm.
Watson said, “At least the danger is past now. It’s all over.”
“Over?”
“We got our man. Or, I suppose, he got himself.”
“What about the ‘Patriarchs’?”
“He discovered they were fake. Perhaps one of the reasons why he took his own life.”
“Perhaps.” It was hard to think. There were things just out of my reach and I wanted quiet and seclusion, a chance to put my thoughts in order. After several minutes, I roused and said, “Where are we? This is not the way to Baker Street.”
“We’re not going to Baker Street.” Watson waited a moment then said, “You know where we’re going.”
I swallowed back the protest and made myself nod.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Mr Holmes?” Julia Simms gave me an anxious look. I suppose my appearance spoke for itself. “Come in. Sit here in the parlour. Let me bring you a pot of tea.”
A moment later Davenport joined us. “How are you, Mr Holmes? Doctor?” he said shaking our hands.
“About as well as expected,” Watson said.
“Has something happened? I see that it has.” He motioned for us to sit. “Just a moment.”
Watson and I sat in silence. Outside, Pimlico was rattling into life. Shadows from the street passed the green concave panes of glass, becoming misshapen and not quite human. The inn smelled of spirits and sawdust. Despite the early hour, the place was immaculate. It was odd to find so public a place so still. It felt as if the building were holding its breath, waiting for its customers. Or perhaps it was I who was waiting.
Soft footsteps, a familiar foot, hurried down the stairs. The door opened and there she stood.
Beatrice.
Watson and I rose.
“You have news?” she said. She did not sit. She did not smile or even acknowledge me at all. I was a stranger.
“That fellow Rickman,” I said. “He’s dead. He hanged himself in Schwartz’s shop.”
“I wish he was alive so I could kill him,” Billy said, bursting into the room. I have known him since he was hardly able to reach my knees and that was the first time I ever saw him weep. His face was blotched and his eyes bloodshot. I thought he’d been weeping for hours, perhaps days. Was he weeping at the funeral yesterday? Was that only yesterday? I cannot remember. I was so lost in my own grief and anger I had no room for anyone else.
“So it is over,” Beatrice said. “A shame he did not kill himself before he murdered Tommy.”
Billy was sobbing. Beatrice put her arm around him and said, “Thank you for letting us know.” Then she turned and left us standing there. Dismissed.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Tuesday 19 July 1898
Zola has arrived in London after being found guilty in a second farcical trial. Better exile than imprisonment, I suppose.
Rickman’s death has left me with too many questions. Watson suggests that the man became fixated on the ‘Patriarchs’ and was determined to find them. Once he finally realised the coins were merely a myth he lost all hope and took his own life. It is reasonable enough as explanations go, so why can I not accept it? No, there are questions that remain without answers and it is these that haunt me. For instance:
How did Rickman first hear of the coins? What led him to Mrs Prentiss? Why did he never find her copy of the translation? Indeed, why bother with a translation when the original was of far greater worth? Why did he arr
ange the meeting with Schwartz and why kill him? Why kill Connie Kidwell? Was it merely because she could identify him or was there another reason?
I have no answers. I suspect, but cannot prove, that Rickman was no killer, not to begin with. Was it desperation that drove him to such extremes? What set him looking for the coins in the first place? Is there anything to suggest the coins really exist? All the experts say no and I share their scepticism. Then again, experts have been wrong before.
I have retraced my steps. I visited Bramley and Sons, the auction house that handled some of the late Sir Nicholas Fleming’s Egyptian collection. They knew nothing about coins or documents. They showed me the catalogue of items they auctioned and their buyers. I have been working through the list, visiting or writing to everyone. The reply is the same: They always understood the coins were a myth but if I find evidence that they exist they would be extremely interested in that information. Assuming provenance can be established, of course.
Camden Town offers no help. The elusive widow Portnoy does not answer, though I have knocked upon her door several times, always in a variety of disguises. Neighbours believe she had to take a job as a governess and has sent her children to live with relatives. Probably there is no help to be had there, but I hate leaving some lead, however tenuous, unexplored.
So the matter seems to have stalled and I am out of avenues. I have resumed some of my scientific experiments.
4.00 pm
One new development: A telegram just arrived from Sir Jeremy Jeffrey, the late Sir Nicholas Fleming’s friend and partner. He says he has only now received my letter and will be happy to assist in any way possible. He shall be back in England next week and shall call to Baker Street.
Perhaps it is foolish, but I retain hope he may know something about the peculiar document that ended up in Mrs Prentiss’s document box.
Watson tells me Billy and B remain in Pimlico.
Wednesday 27 July 1898