THE DEVIL’S DUE
A SHERLOCK HOLMES ADVENTURE
Bonnie MacBird
Copyright
This book is a new and original work of fiction featuring Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson, and other fictional characters that were first introduced to the world in 1887 by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, all of which are now in the public domain. The characters are used by the author solely for the purpose of story-telling and not as trademarks. This book is independently authored and published, and is not sponsored or endorsed by, or associated in any way with, Conan Doyle Estate, Ltd. or any other party claiming trademark rights in any of the characters in the Sherlock Holmes canon.
COLLINS CRIME CLUB
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Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © Bonnie MacBird 2019
All rights reserved
Bonnie MacBird asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Cover images © Bonnie MacBird (figures); Shutterstock.com (all other images)
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008195076
Ebook Edition © October 2019 ISBN: 9780008348113
Version: 2019-08-23
Dedication
For my cousin, Chris Simpson
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
PART ONE – LONDON
1 Fog
2 221B
3 Attack!
4 Devil and Hyde
5 Brotherly Love
PART TWO – GATHERING THE TROOPS
6 The Greater Goodwins
7 The Spice of Life
8 The Lady
9 A Question of Taste
10 The Snake and Drum
PART THREE – ALLIES AND OTHERS
11 Heffie
12 The Dogged Detective
13 The Baguette Brigade
14 Death at the Opera
15 A Voice Stilled
16 Italian Air
PART FOUR – SETBACK
17 Snap
18 Helping Hands
19 Pack of Foxes
20 Might Makes Right
PART FIVE – BACKWATER
21 Cat and Mouse
22 One Flask Closer
23 Zebras
24 Fabric of Doubt
25 Deep Waters
26 Into the Mud
PART SIX – OUT OF THE FRYING PAN
27 Aesthetes and Anarchists
28 Conflagration
29 Embers
30 The Baker Street Bazaar
31 The Bizarre
32 221B
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
Also by Bonnie MacBird
About the Publisher
Prologue
On a recent late September afternoon in London, as torrential downpours skittered down the bow window of my flat on Chiltern Street, I stood looking at the grey wall of water battering the vista below. Off to the right, across Marylebone Road, umbrellas crowded the Baker Street Station tube entrance, collapsing like evening blossoms as their owners, clad in puffy jackets, windbreakers and trainers, dashed into the building.
Those doors first opened more than a hundred and fifty years ago.
I blinked and imagined it was 1890, that same station, but beneath the jumble of umbrellas was a sea of top hats, bowlers and a few flowered bonnets, well-cut suits and the occasional long dress trailing across the muddy pavement.
Deep below street level, noisy black engines belched steam and thundered through the darkness at terrifying speeds. Some superstitious Londoners would not venture into the depths. Who knew what devilish vapours might be swirling around down there?
In 1890, London was the reigning centre of culture and commerce. But even as we romanticize those late Victorian times, we must also acknowledge that this magnificent city had her woes. What astonished me about the tale I discovered that day – inscribed in neat penmanship on a faded schoolboy notebook – was how little things had actually changed. Crime, yellow journalism, mob thinking, homelessness, murder, police brutality, fear of immigrants, dark politics – all in full flower then – and now.
But who better to slice cleanly through the shifting morass of murder, chaos and moral ambiguity than the remarkable Sherlock Holmes? It was time for a dose of his clarity, courage, and intellectual rigour.
So, once again, I sat down with the battered tin box which had been given to me by a mysterious woman from the British Library. What might be revealed today? I opened the box and immediately my eyes were drawn to a glint of gold. A bright coin had been glued to a thick envelope sticking out from the others. I pulled it out to have a look.
The coin was old, two hundred years or more. What could it mean? Its date was long before Watson and Holmes walked the London streets. A small voice inside me said that the time was right to open the package to which this coin had adhered.
As I removed the string tied round the musty envelope, a playing card fell out. On the back was a faded design in blue. I flipped it over. It was no ordinary playing card, but a Tarot card – bearing the image of a monster with a remarkably frightening visage – horns, forked tongue and a lean, muscular body. The Devil.
And then a strange thing happened.
As I stared at it, the power suddenly went off in my flat, silencing a Vivaldi violin concerto mid-arpeggio, and plunging me into near darkness. Outside, the rainy dusk was a dim glow.
I am not the superstitious type. I got up, lit a few candles, and sat back down. I gently eased the dog-eared notebook from the envelope. On the cover, The Devil’s Due, was inscribed in Dr Watson’s distinctive, neat handwriting.
Consuming this by candlelight seemed entirely appropriate. Here is what I read.
—Bonnie MacBird
London, April 2019
PART ONE
LONDON
‘Sir, if you wish to have a just notion of the magnitude of this city, you must not be satisfied with seeing its great streets and squares but must survey the innumerable little lanes and courts. It is not in the showy evolutions of buildings, but in the multiplicity of human habitations which are crowded together that the wonderful immensity of London consists.’
—Samuel Johnson
CHAPTER 1
Fog
London could be heaven; London could be hell. I thought I knew the city well following more than eight years of adventures with my friend Sherlock Holmes, but the extremes of my adopted home had never revealed themselves to me so clearly as they did during the adventure I am about to relate.
It was in November of 1890 that Holmes faced one of the worst villains of his career, a monster responsible for a
series of high profile, grotesque murders that both terrified and titillated the city. These violent deaths were strung, like so many blood-soaked pearls on a devil’s necklace.
Only Sherlock Holmes could have traced the gossamer thread that tied together anarchists and artists, politicians and prostitutes, grocers, grafters, and even royalty. But in the process, he was nearly consumed himself by the fires of hell. Or in this case, St James’s.
My name is Dr John Watson. At the time of this tale, I had been happily married to our former client Mary Morstan for close to two years, and had resumed my medical practice, now in Paddington. One icy Tuesday morning in November, Mary and I lingered in our quiet dining-room over coffee and the newspapers.
The Russian ’flu, which had kept me monotonously occupied was at last waning and no one awaited me in my surgery. The grandfather clock ticked, crisp toast cooled in its silver rack, and time stretched on. I poured myself a third cup of coffee. It had been weeks since I had seen my friend Sherlock Holmes.
Meanwhile the newspapers reported that just outside our windows, London seethed under the tumult of a rising tide of immigrants from France, Italy, and Ireland, shuddered with terror as anarchists (mainly French) set off bombs, groaned under the weight of poverty and a rising crime rate, and twisted in circles over government intrigue, royal scandal, industrialism, and ‘The Woman Question’. At the same time, the city glittered with new operas and theatrical galas, and art, music and entertainment lit up her evenings.
I flung down my paper and stared at the rain outside our window.
‘Listen to this, John,’ said Mary. ‘There’s a newly installed “Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police” – now there’s a title – named Titus Billings who “promises to make London safe from the hordes of foreign criminals flooding our city”.’
I sighed. ‘Hmm. I am sure there are a few home-grown ones as well.’
‘There is more. He’s planning to do this by “arming the police, putting more boots on the street, and banishing all amateurs from criminal investigations”.’ She handed me her pages in disgust. ‘Looks an awful fellow. You don’t suppose he means Mr Sherlock Holmes?’
I stared at the image of Titus Billings on the page. He was an imperious, military type with a thick black moustache and fierce eyes. It was a case of instant dislike. ‘He’d be a fool if so,’ said I. It would not surprise me if Holmes had already tangled with the man.
‘Perhaps a visit to Mr Holmes is in order?’
‘I am sure he is quite busy, Mary. He is no doubt behind the scenes on that strange Anson case.’
‘The man found drowned in his bed? An impossible death!’ She shuddered.
‘Yes, an odd one,’ said I musing at the image of a wealthy man found dry, clean, and in his nightclothes, upright in his bed, yet drowned, a ‘Devil’ Tarot card in his hand. The reports had been intriguing. Mary was staring at me. ‘Well, yes, it has been quite the season for unusual murders,’ I added.
‘And Danforth, that paper magnate, stabbed to death with a letter opener,’ she urged, regarding me closely. ‘That is an odd one!’
I laughed at the irony of the crime. ‘Oh, indeed,’ I said. Holmes was no doubt enjoying that case.
‘You share Mr Holmes’s morbid humour, John!’ she chided, but I knew she was as fond of Holmes as I. ‘You know, he may have run into trouble there,’ she added. ‘Take a look.’ She laid The Illustrated Police Gazette in front of me. There, on that lurid rag was the headline ‘False Conjurer Sherlock Holmes Fails Spectacularly!’
‘False conjurer? What on earth?’
I quickly read the article, and as I did so, felt a rising anger against the writer, one Gabriel Zanders. He hinted that Sherlock Holmes had ‘an unhealthy affinity for blood and death’, had ‘attempted to misdirect the police in the manner of a carnival magician’, and ‘caused the arrest the wrong fellow in the spectacular Danforth murder’. It ended with: ‘What dark motives are hidden behind that sallow, sinister face? Who can understand the mind of this inhuman automaton who haunts London?’ An unflattering illustration of Holmes appeared next to the article.
Mary began clearing the dishes. She lingered near my chair, looking at the article.
‘John, what about a short holiday? Take some time off. Perhaps go see Mr Holmes. You are the wind under his wings, I think.’
‘The ballast in his hold, more accurately,’ said I, smiling at the image of my friend as a fast moving though slightly unsteady ship. ‘But if I am to take a holiday,’ said I, ‘it must be with you, Mary. I am worried about that cough.’
‘The Trowbridges have suggested a fortnight’s visit to their Cotswold manor, John,’ said Mary.
‘Fresh air. Good idea,’ I said, my heart sinking.
She laughed. ‘Oh, John, you despise the Trowbridges! I will go there, and you go to Mr Holmes. Do not argue.’ She smiled and kissed me on the cheek. ‘We shall both return refreshed.’
What man has ever had a more understanding wife!
With the notice of a holiday posted on my surgery door, and a word to a colleague who would take up any urgent cases, I was off within the hour.
CHAPTER 2
221B
It was thus with considerable pleasure and a free conscience that I found myself later that morning in the sitting-room of 221B Baker Street, awaiting the appearance of my dear friend. Whether he would welcome an extended visit, I had no idea.
The room, as usual, was awash in newspapers, dirty ashtrays, and odd items. The chemistry table held a series of jars containing what appeared to be human fingers, and on one table was an elephant’s tusk, stained brown at the pointed end.
How I missed our close association!
I noticed that several newspapers including two weeks’ worth of The Illustrated Police Gazette had been laid out on the dining table, their pages folded back to specific articles. I was reading the third, tirades much like the one Mary had shown me, with mounting alarm when I was startled by a voice inches behind my left ear.
‘Dear Watson, are you finding the Gazette edifying?’
I started and turned to see my friend, who must have entered the room on a cushion of air, for I had heard nothing.
‘Holmes! You gave me such a fright!’
‘Apparently I am having quite an effect on any number of people,’ said he with a laugh. He was still in nightclothes, his hair uncombed, and a cigarette already in hand. ‘Coffee, please, Mrs Hudson,’ he called out over his shoulder. Then to me, ‘You will join me, Watson?’
‘Thank you, no. I have been up for hours. My God, these articles! This Gabriel Zanders, fellow—’
‘Disregard him. He is a muckraking master of schadenfreude. He’s first to the scene of any crime and loves nothing more than to publish lurid details even before the family is notified. I took him to task for this in front of the man who happened to be his editor. He has been going after me ever since.’
‘I am sorry to hear it. He seems bent on doing you harm.’
Holmes shrugged dismissively, then turned his focus to me. He smiled. ‘You have been busy of late, but you have decided on a holiday. What brings you here, instead of to some pastoral paradise with Mary?’
‘Do not make me ask how you deduced this!’
‘Perfectly simple. You have discarded your professional costume. You lack the expensive polished boots with which you attempt to dazzle your new patients, but which cause you pain in your left big toe, and the rather ostentatious gold watch which announces that you are more well established than you actually are. Instead, you are in your old suit and your comfortable brogues, which have served you well on our many wanderings, and with that old timepiece of your late brother’s, also gold but rather worn, which provides sentimental value but conveys less prestige.’
‘All right, Holmes. I know that you— Wait! The left big toe?’
‘Remember I have visited you in your surgery, Watson. I have noted your very different attire, shoes and watch, which I
have never seen you wear elsewhere, and have drawn an obvious conclusion. In those terribly shiny boots which complete your impressive costume, I discerned a small protrusion in the area of your left big toe, and having seen your feet free of encumbrances on a number of occasions while you lived here on Baker Street, I am aware of a slight deformity which makes shoe-fit difficult. Those you are wearing now you had stretched by the cobbler on Paddington Street in March four years ago, and you have since worn them for some time, and on some very long rambles.’
I sighed. It was simple observation, coupled with that prodigious memory. ‘Really, Holmes, you risk overcrowding that brain attic of which you are so proud.’
Holmes laughed. ‘You need not worry, Watson.’
‘Though it has served you well. I read you were being considered for Queen’s honours!’
‘And today dismissed as a fraud!’ exclaimed Holmes. ‘Or rather a false conjurer. Ah, the press. It is as worth riling oneself over them as it is the weather.’
‘Today was a particularly vitriolic attack, Holmes. Were you wrong about the Danforth case?’
Holmes yawned. ‘Of course not. Do not believe all that you read, Watson,’ said he. ‘The press seeks to create heroes and villains, angels and devils, where mere mortals exist.’ He took a deep draw on his cigarette and sank into the basket chair.
Mrs Hudson entered wordlessly and set down a coffee service on the table, not bothering to remove the newspapers laid there. With a friendly nod to me and a look of remonstrance at Holmes, she exited in silence.
I had meanwhile glanced at two other Zanders articles. I shook my head in anger.
‘Good old Watson. Like most people I see that you are drawn like a moth to a flame to a trifling bit of opprobrious news.’ He looked at me closely. ‘And you are transparently outraged!’ This appeared to amuse him.
‘Here’s another headline: “Baker Street Braggart Sherlock Holmes fails spectacularly.”
‘I know. Let me apply some coffee to my fogged cerebrum.’ He poured himself a cup and once again sank into the chair.
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