The Devil's Due

by Bonnie MacBird

  ‘My God, Holmes? You found that here?’

  ‘Mixed in with the sheet music, near the ammoniaphone.’

  ‘This killer taunts us. And the police. Is that not rather stupid?’

  ‘Apparently not, Watson. Billings missed it.’

  ‘But he is a fool!’

  ‘Not a fool, Watson, something much more dangerous. Billings is a man bent on closing cases quickly and consolidating power. There is an agenda in play.’

  I took the card and stared at it. ‘Certainly, these deaths are the work of the same person, then.’

  ‘Only death and taxes are certain, as Benjamin Franklin said. The cases are uniquely creative, and devious – but yes, Watson, I believe it is likely we are dealing with a single killer. At last, one with whom it is an honour to match wits!’ His eyes shone with excitement.

  Neither he nor I could have possibly anticipated the next bump in the road.

  PART FOUR

  SETBACK

  ‘No pressure, no diamonds.’

  —Thomas Carlisle

  CHAPTER 17

  Snap

  Holmes directed our cab first to the address of Mr Ambrose Kepler in Holborn, a renowned toxicologist. There he deposited the curious ammoniaphone. He returned to our cab with the blue scarf he had used as an additional wrapping, which alarmed me. I was wary of possible contamination and said so.

  ‘Kepler was not bothered by it, and he would not last long in his business if not sufficiently cautious,’ said Holmes. ‘But dispose of it, if you must.’

  We proceeded towards Victoria Embankment and the new location of Scotland Yard. I would have preferred to keep our distance from Titus Billings, but Holmes insisted, as Lestrade had promised to provide us with police files on Anson, Benjamin and Clammory. Holmes was on fire about the case.

  ‘Will they not miss the files?’ I wondered.

  ‘Do you think they are poring over them? You noted the rigour of this morning’s investigation. No. We must press on, as the murderer surely will.’

  ‘Your brother warned against confronting Billings until he can discover a way to loosen this fellow’s grip.’

  ‘I cannot wait for those wheels to turn.’

  ‘That was only yesterday, Holmes!’

  ‘Yes, and two more have died since, one in front of our eyes. Watson, we must not delay.’

  At New Scotland Yard, I satisfied myself by disposing of Holmes’s blue scarf deep in a bin at the side of the building where no one was likely to come upon it. We entered, unimpeded, through the front doors, and to my relief, were guided down the freshly painted hallways to Lestrade’s new office.

  While most of the police respected and even admired Holmes, some resented him, and he was not universally welcomed. Past visits to Scotland Yard had occasionally made me uncomfortable, but Holmes did not seem to care.

  At last we entered Lestrade’s new office, but he was not to be found. The office was less than impressive. There were no windows or bookcases – only a desk, three plain chairs – but there was a telephone at a reception desk down the hall from his door. That, at least, was progress, I supposed, although there were so few telephones in the city as of yet, I wondered who he could be calling.

  ‘There is a telephone in our future at Baker Street,’ remarked Holmes. ‘Imagine the time it will save! We might have beaten Billings to the opera this morning had not Lestrade been obliged to collect us first!’

  We sat down. Holmes took an interest in a strange handcuff device on Lestrade’s desk. It had a single opening for a wrist, and a kind of handle on one end. He handed it to me.

  I twisted the handle and the opening widened, then retracted. ‘That is odd!’

  ‘Have you never seen one of these, Watson? It’s a nipper. Also called a “come along”. Used to transport recalcitrant prisoners.’ He plunged the thing down on an imaginary wrist and twisted. ‘I haven’t seen one of these in years. Most departments gave them up. Too dangerous.’

  ‘Too many broken bones, I would imagine.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Lestrade joined us in a moment, with apologies. ‘The files are being reorganized from the move, under one of Billings’s men. I can get them for you shortly, while he is at lunch, Mr Holmes. Meanwhile, it would be best if you stay undiscovered. At least take off your coats, gentlemen.’

  As we removed our wraps, he took up the nippers from his desk, and with a frown tossed them in a drawer. ‘New issue,’ he said in disgust. ‘Billings’s idea. I would no sooner use these than a bullwhip or a brass knuckle. The man is uncivilized.’ We heard a sharp knock on the door of Lestrade’s office, and without waiting for a reply in strode Constable Fleming, the young officer whom we had been obliged to circumvent at the stage door that morning.

  He projected all the authoritarian dignity he could muster as one barely out of his teens. ‘Mr Lestrade, Mr Billings has been informed of your visitors and will deal with you later. Everyone on the force is to read this.’ He handed Lestrade a pamphlet, on which I glimpsed a title: ‘Might Is Right’. Lestrade glanced at it and tossed it carelessly on his desk, an action not lost on Fleming.

  ‘He would now like to see Dr Watson in his office. Mr Holmes, you may tag along if you wish.’

  Holmes laughed. Lestrade shook his head in disgust.

  ‘I suggest you do not keep him waiting,’ said Fleming, perceiving the slight. Holmes shrugged and made a show of deferring to me. There seemed no point in refusing, if we were to have any further hope of obtaining the desired files.

  I could not have anticipated the horrifying direction this ill-considered visit would take.

  As we proceeded towards Billings’s office, Fleming handed two more men copies of this curious pamphlet, placing the rest in his pocket. As we rounded a corner, Holmes pretended to bump into Fleming, but I observed that he pickpocketed a pamphlet and with a wink to me placed it, folded, in his own pocket.

  In a moment or two, we faced Billings in his cavernous office, seated at an enormous, leather-topped desk, in front of windows with a panoramic view of the Thames gleaming in the blue snowy light.

  ‘Dr Watson! I presume you are here to file your expert witness report on the poisoning of Mr Claudio Enrietti by his dresser – what’s his name, Arturo? Angelino? No matter. Good of you to be so diligent.’ His words were polite, but his tone held a menace that was not lost on me.

  Holmes ignored Billings and had meandered across the room to get a closer look at a wall of framed photographs and certificates, as well as a few knives and weapons I recognized from my own tour of India and Afghanistan.

  ‘A distinguished military career, I see, Billings,’ he remarked. ‘Certificate commending your bravery. A newspaper clipping. A weapon with dried blood, I presume used by you to quell some rebel individual threatening the Empire.’ There was the slightest hint of sarcasm. ‘And a portrait of General Gordon. Your admiration for that warlike gentleman is shared by Watson, here.’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘But no medals? I presume you have those in your study at home?’ said Holmes.

  I thought it unwise for my friend to bait the bull who sat before us.

  But Titus Billings did not rise to the bait. ‘Dr Watson,’ he said, his voice friendly. ‘In reading the accounts of your adventures with your friend here, I sense that you have been modest about your own contributions to the cases the two of you have solved. I rather think, from my observations this morning, that you provide the actual intelligence behind the partnership. Let me have your report, please. Poison killed both singer and servant, would you not say? In the same room. Within six feet of each other. The servant poisoning the master, then committing suicide to avoid gaol. I have seen it before.’

  ‘The poisons were not the same,’ I said.

  There was a click behind us. We turned and saw that two tall policemen with gold braid on their uniforms had entered the room in silence and closed the door behind them. Without speaking, they
took up places on either side of the door. Billings had summoned them, somehow.

  From across the room, Holmes shot me a warning glance.

  Billings continued in his pleasant voice, ‘Nevertheless, Dr Watson …’ He turned to Holmes. ‘I presume you have come with Dr Watson as a friendly gesture of support. No? Then why are you here, Mr Holmes?’

  ‘I’ll wager you know precisely why I am here,’ said Holmes quietly.

  ‘You think that London is menaced by some heinous murdering mastermind.’

  ‘Well, yes. There are several murders which I believe are connected. Enrietti’s appears to be the latest in a series. As acting head of the police, it is your duty to follow up on this clear pattern, and to keep London safe from this murderous spree.’

  ‘You presume to advise me of my job, Holmes?’

  Holmes pondered a moment, debating whether to show his hand. I was puzzled that he chose to do so.

  ‘The killings, I believe, are being committed alphabetically,’ he said. ‘A–Anson, B–Benjamin, C–Clammory, D–Danforth, and today, E–Enrietti. All are members of a secret group called the Luminarians. All are philanthropists. And in most cases, there have been attendant deaths. Suicides, or other murders.’

  ‘Those you name have all been cleared. I know about that “Luminary theory”,’ said Billings dismissively. ‘We examined and discarded it. It is a fictional society concocted by two egotistical brothers who go to great lengths to amuse themselves. There is absolutely nothing in what you say.’

  ‘This killer is highly creative. The series of murders will continue under your watch unless you—’

  ‘You are misinformed! And simply wrong. Sebastian Danforth? You know full well that his own son killed him. And the Benjamin case was a double suicide. There is no series of murders.’

  ‘You are mistaken,’ said Holmes.

  ‘Yes? Where is the connecting evidence? Where is the key to tie these together? Have you any? Have you?’ Billings’s face had flushed a deep red. It was an extreme reaction, I thought, even for the bully he had revealed himself to be.

  Holmes paused. ‘A Tarot card was placed at the scene of Horatio Anson’s death. The Devil. I believe it may be the killer’s signature,’ he said.

  ‘You did not investigate that case.’

  ‘True, but that detail was in the papers.’

  ‘Cards were found nowhere else,’ said Billings.

  ‘Perhaps you missed it. As you did this one, today.’

  Holmes revealed the Tarot card from his pocket. ‘Found in Enrietti’s dressing-room.’

  Billings coughed and poured himself water from a carafe. He took a sip.

  ‘I missed nothing. I suggest you planted this card. I have long suspected that you have directed, perhaps even perpetrated, crimes for your own amusement and to create a hero of yourself. You are nothing but an attention-seeking waste of police time. Your friend is wiser.’

  ‘Billings, there will be more deaths if this killer is not stopped.’

  Titus Billings smiled at Holmes. It sent a chill down my spine.

  ‘What is that card, The Devil? We are not superstitious here. But there is a kind of strange darkness about you, Sherlock Holmes. Even the public begins to notice it.’ He picked up a newspaper from his desk. On the front page was an image of Holmes holding up a hand as two women swung at him with their handbags in Hyde Park.

  ‘The Devil Runs from Speakers’ Corner Faithful in Hyde Park!’ Billings read and laughed.

  Holmes ignored this. ‘I believe Oliver Flynn will be targeted next,’ said he. ‘The “F” in the alphabet. You would be wise to keep watch.’

  Billings laughed. ‘Oliver Flynn! That effete excuse for a man! Let me tell you something, Holmes. Flynn is under the covers with the French anarchists. His are Irish terrorist sympathies. I’ll have him in my grip before the month is out. You would better apply your skills against the tide of scheming foreigners who threaten our dear nation, rather than concocting half-baked theories about alphabet murderers.’

  Billings stood from his desk and came round to face me. Holmes remained across the room, but I sensed him go on the alert.

  ‘Dr Watson, I will expect your report before you leave the building. Confirm that the same poison killed Enrietti and his little man.’

  ‘I do not concur, sir, and I will not perjure myself.’

  ‘Why, I am surprised, Doctor! You are a gifted doctor. Or so everyone says.’ In a sudden peculiar gesture of good will, Billings grabbed my right hand and pumped it in a vigorous handshake while reaching around with his left hand to grip me on my right shoulder. I felt a searing pain.

  It was precisely the spot where a Jezail bullet had shattered the bone at Maiwand. I did not know how, but Billings knew exactly where I’d received that injury.

  I gasped. Holmes was instantly at my side.

  Billings released my shoulder and my hand and delivered this next to both of us. ‘And of course, behind every great man, there is often the little woman whose support and love make great deeds possible.’

  A ripple of unease flowed through me, at the same time as I thought how my sweet Mary would feel being called the ‘little woman’.

  ‘Let’s see. Watson’s wife – Mary, I think her name is,’ Billings continued. ‘Formerly Mary Morstan. Currently on holiday in the Cotswolds, is she? At a private home with some people called … the Trowbridges. Am I correct?’

  My insides turned to ice. It was all I could do to keep from leaping on the man and throttling him. Holmes placed his hand on my arm to calm me and replied, in a voice like steel, ‘Harm a single hair on Mary Watson’s head and you will have more than the two of us to contend with.’

  ‘My, my Mr Holmes, but you are excitable! Isn’t he, gentlemen?’

  The two men by the door spoke up.

  ‘Yes, sir. Both of them, sir.’

  ‘Very excitable, sir.’

  ‘In fact, I feel threatened. Was that a threat?’ said Billings.

  ‘Come, Watson,’ said Holmes, gripping my arm and pulling me towards the door.

  But Billings moved quickly to block our exit, with his two men now flanking him.

  ‘Which of these men just threatened me?’ Billings said. He looked from Holmes to me and settled back on Holmes. ‘This one, I think.’

  ‘Step aside, Billings,’ said Holmes quietly. ‘You really don’t want to rile Dr Watson.’

  Billings raised his hand as if to backhand me, and Holmes blocked it with his own. In an instant, Billings’s two men were on Holmes, each taking an arm. I tackled one of the men, but a flash of steel appeared in Billings’s hand and he lunged at Holmes’s wrist, clamped on the nippers and twisted them.

  The two men released him, and with a gasp Holmes spiralled down onto the floor, his left arm extended behind him in a crazy angle, the nippers encircling his thin wrist. He writhed soundlessly in pain.

  ‘Back away, Dr Watson,’ commanded Billings. ‘Now.’

  I complied, thinking he would release Holmes. But instead, Billings gave the cuff a sharp twist and a crack sounded in the room.

  Holmes gasped.

  No one moved for a moment. Silence except for the sound of Holmes’s ragged breathing. I could see his wrist was broken. A bone nearly protruded from the skin.

  ‘My God, what have you done?’ I cried.

  With a flick of his own wrist, Billings undid the nippers, and replaced them in his pocket. He and his two men stood back, smiling at us. ‘Handy little device,’ Billings remarked.

  Holmes, on his knees, cradled his wrist, which was ballooning before my eyes. His face went white. Shock was a real danger. I had to get him out of there.

  I gripped him by the uninjured arm and hauled him to his feet. He said nothing but his eyes were glassy, his breathing shallow. We exited in a rush, but Billings’s voice followed.

  ‘When I see you next, I’ll lock you up, Holmes!’ he called out. ‘Who knows what might happen when you attack your gaoler t
here?’

  Moments later, as sudden flurry of snow descended around us, we were escorted out of the building. A sympathetic young constable hailed us a four-wheeler. I bundled Holmes into the carriage as Lestrade ran up to us, his face a mask of concern. He handed me our coats. Underneath was concealed a thick packet of papers bound in an oilskin envelope.

  ‘Take these,’ he whispered. He peered in at Holmes who was slumped against the window. ‘My God, I just heard. Are you all right, Mr Holmes?’

  Holmes opened his eyes. ‘The files?’ he murmured, barely audible.

  ‘Anson, Benjamin, Clammory,’ whispered Lestrade, handing me the packet. ‘All there.’ Holmes nodded and collapsed back in the seat.

  ‘The nippers,’ I said. ‘Those things should be outlawed.’ I climbed in next to Holmes.

  Lestrade nodded gravely. ‘Will he be all right, Doctor?’

  ‘I will make sure of it,’ I said, tapped the roof, and the carriage lurched into motion.

  Holmes groaned and his eyes half opened. ‘Your shoulder, Watson! Maiwand,’ he mumbled. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Steady on, Holmes. No damage here.’

  He nodded, relieved, then passed out.

  CHAPTER 18

  Helping Hands

  As we raced across London to Baker Street, I splinted Holmes’s wrist temporarily with my cane and cravat, which held until I settled him on the sofa in the sitting-room, arm elevated and iced. He lay there, eyes closed, pale and hovering on the edge of consciousness, as we awaited a response from a specialist on Harley Street whom I had summoned.

  I prayed Dr Lunsford Meredith would be available, for he was renowned in London medical circles as the foremost expert on hand and wrist injuries. Indeed, the man was one of the pioneers of osteosynthesis – a method of stabilizing fractures with external braces bolted into the bone. I hoped that such an invasive remedy would not be needed, but whatever the case, there could be no better expert.

  I dashed off a cable to Mary, tersely warning her of danger and urging her to remove herself to another place. I received an answer soon thereafter. She and the Trowbridges would repair to Edinburgh and the home of Mrs Trowbridge’s brother, careful to leave no trail. Not every wife would heed such a request without long explanation, and I counted my blessings that Mary did, acquainted as she was with Sherlock Holmes and the danger of our adventures together.