The Devil's Due

by Bonnie MacBird

  ‘Mr ’olmes!’ shouted the girl.

  ‘I am sorry, gentlemen,’ said Mrs Hudson. ‘I could not stop her.’

  ‘Mr ’olmes, that job you sent me on. That was a right horror, but I fixed it. I fixed it good!’

  Heffie paused and took in the five of us in the room, Holmes on the sofa with his bandaged arm, the terribly polished Goodwins in their costly attire, and Dr Meredith and his extensive supplies.

  ‘Wot the bloody ’ell is going on ’ere?’ she wondered. ‘And ’ave you got any food?’

  James Goodwin was on his feet, transfixed by the girl and offering his chair. He smoothed his patent leather hair self-consciously. ‘Mademoiselle! Please be seated! You are flushed. May I find some tea for you? Biscuits? A brandy?’

  Heffie eyed him from head to toe, and then laughed. ‘I only drinks champagne afore six. Oh, sit down, you silly git.’

  CHAPTER 19

  Pack of Foxes

  Ten minutes later, our sitting-room had been cleared of all guests. I opened the window, as the scent of James Goodwin’s cologne was giving Holmes a headache. But the snow outside had turned into sleet and it chilled the room in an instant. I closed the window.

  Heffie was eager to tell her story. Holmes, his face white and drawn from his ordeal, lay back on the sofa, nevertheless listening with intense interest. Here is what she related.

  Shortly after Holmes had deposited Heffie the previous night at Lady Eleanor’s school, she was offered a bath and issued with a nightgown, slippers, shoes and the school uniform which she now wore. She was introduced to Judith, with whom she was temporarily to share a room.

  This arrangement did not suit the senior girl at all. Judith, in fact, was quite the double-edged sword, according to Heffie – radiating intelligence, propriety and charm when the headmistress was near, but revealing quite a different personality the moment Heffie was alone with her.

  It transpired that Judith was a gifted fabricator, and Heffie quickly ascertained that the girl had in play several businesses on the side, not the least of which was operating as a kind of brothel queen, brokering the services of some of the more attractive senior girls to eager workman at a nearby packing factory. For this, Judith used several rooms in a boarding house which sat between the school and this factory.

  Heffie was no mean hand at chicanery herself and signed on immediately as a member of Judith’s gang. Judith had apparently managed to hide these activities from the headmistress, although Heffie had not had the time to discover all. She did learn, however, that one of the male teachers who visited the school twice weekly as a music instructor had begun to suspect something.

  Judith told Heffie that she had planned to ruin this teacher, whom she was poised to name as the culprit. She would claim, in a day or so, that he attacked her in a fury when she refused his marriage proposal, but that she had been afraid to point the finger. It was a brilliant plan, delayed by Heffie’s arrival on the scene.

  I was astonished that the girl had discovered this much in a mere twenty-four hours, but Holmes was not.

  ‘Excellent work, Heffie,’ said he. ‘I presume you told no one, as we agreed?’ He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa.

  ‘I tol’ no one,’ she said, ‘like you said. Nobody would believe me if I done so anyways, ’cuz everybody over there thinks Judith walks on water. Even poor Lady Eleanor is bamboozled. They all are. But I saw what’s what, an’ there you are.’

  ‘Remarkable!’ I said.

  ‘Could I have a sandwich? An’ a whisky, please?’ asked Heffie. I called down to Mrs Hudson for some food and tea. Heffie waited for me to sit down again, then continued. ‘That Judith, she’s a smart one, and mean, as well. I could handle her meself, but the girl has friends there, a gang, like; and, girls, you see, we can be dangerous in a group. It’s kind of like a pack o’ foxes. We ’ave sharp teeth.’

  Holmes nodded. ‘You do. Excellent work,’ said he with a smile.

  ‘Foxes don’t run in packs,’ I said. ‘They hunt alone.’ Holmes frowned at me.

  ‘Well, it’s up to you, Mr ’olmes. I done my bit.’

  ‘Indeed, you have, Heffie, and it was a wise move to leave. What is the name of the teacher whom Judith was set to ruin?’

  ‘Jerome O’Keefe,’ said she. ‘But she won’t have any luck there. I scared ’im off.’

  ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘Tole ’im that ’e was right about the brothel, but that the whole school was in on it and ’e’d best look elsewhere for work, or they’d ruin ’im.’

  ‘Did he believe you?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Seemed to. Wise man.’

  ‘Did you have time to discover if any of the other teachers were involved?’ Holmes absentmindedly was rubbing the upper arm above his splint. I could see he was in pain.

  ‘No. But I run out o’ time. My guess is none of ’em. Like I said, Judith’s a smart one.’

  ‘Poor Lady Eleanor,’ I remarked. ‘I doubt she has any idea of this.’

  Holmes sighed. ‘Our work is done. We will have to let the lady know. That will come as a blow. But better that she learn what Judith has been up to and remove the worm from the apple. I hope the school is salvageable.’

  ‘Wot’s “salverjibble” mean?’ asked Heffie.

  ‘Saved. The question remains whether the rest of the school is still working as designed? Can something good be restored?’ said Holmes.

  ‘Oh, seems so, Mr ’olmes. I think it was only Judith and a few of ’er close friends. Four at most. I’d say the rest o’ the girls are straight out aimin’ to go into service. Poor fools.’

  ‘Not something you’d consider?’ I said.

  She looked at me as though I’d proposed she sprout wings and fly. She turned back to Holmes. ‘Anything else I can do for you, Mr ’olmes? You look to be laid up for a bit. You need a hand, do you?’ She paused, with a mischievous grin. ‘That’s a joke. Hand. Heh heh.’

  Holmes did not respond. I looked over and his eyes were closed. Had the pain and all the morphine managed to finally knock him out?

  Heffie looked embarrassed. ‘Sorry. You ain’t tippy-top right now, is you?’

  Holmes did not answer the question. He opened his eyes halfway. ‘Heffie … I have more work for you. In the meantime, let me pay you for the Judith case. Watson, there is money in my desk drawer.’

  ‘You are planning to report this to the police, I presume,’ I said, unlocking the desk after retrieving the key from his watch chain.

  ‘Not while Billings is in charge. Have you had a look at the manifesto that he is distributing among the force?’

  He indicated ‘Might Is Right’ on a side table.

  ‘That thing you lifted from Officer Fleming? Now when could I have done that?’ I remarked with more irritation than I meant.

  Heffie yawned. I turned my attention to paying her, and Mrs Hudson arrived with sandwiches and tea. It was dark outside by now. It transpired that the school had taken Heffie’s clothes and burned them, so that all she had was the schoolgirl clothing which she was wearing.

  ‘I can’t go back ’ome in this kit,’ she remarked, mouth full of ham sandwich. Once again, Holmes invited her to stay downstairs with Mrs Hudson. Exhausted from having been up all through the night on her Judith case, the girl retired early, but not before a parting shot: ‘You were so worried I didn’t stitch ’im up right, Doc. Look at ’im now. You ought take better care of that man! ’E’s a sorry sight, ’e is!’

  The room was suddenly very quiet. I turned to Holmes. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing heavily. Heffie was of course right: he did not look well at all. I removed a blanket from his bedroom and covered him with it. He did not stir.

  I contemplated bringing bedding from my room upstairs and remaining here in the sitting-room to keep an eye on him. I glanced at the pamphlet on the table, but I was too tired to read. As I considered my next move, the silence was rent by the splintering crash of glass breaking as a brick smashed throu
gh one of the front windows looking down onto Baker Street.

  ‘What!’ cried Holmes, instantly awake. He and I leapt to our feet, he tangling in the blanket and nearly tumbling, me reaching into my pocket for my revolver without even a split second of thought. But my gun was upstairs, still in my valise.

  We both stared down at the object. It was rectangular in shape, with newspaper wrapped around it. Holmes approached it and gingerly poked at it with one slippered foot.

  ‘Careful!’ I cried. ‘Might it be a bomb?’ The anarchists leapt into my mind.

  ‘It’s a brick,’ said Holmes. ‘You can see here, this corner, sticking out.’

  ‘Thank God,’ said I.

  The curtains flapped and a blast of cold air rushed in from the broken window.

  ‘Quick, Watson, look down in the street. Careful!’ Partly concealed by the curtain, I peered out. The street was empty. I turned and Holmes had picked up the brick with his good hand and was holding it near a table lamp. He looked shaky.

  ‘Give me that and sit down,’ I said, and taking it from him I unwrapped the paper which had been tied with brown string. It was a carefully folded page from the newspaper, and inside was a note on plain white paper.

  The note said, simply, ‘Devil!’

  ‘The newspaper, Watson. That is the real message, I wager.’

  Remarkably, the newspaper was not wet, only slightly damp. Given the sleet, this missive must have been carried here under a wrap. The newspaper clipping was from The Times, a mere four hours ago.

  As I unfolded it, a large illustration was revealed. It was taken from the photograph of Holmes earlier this morning on our doorstep, accompanied by the enormous black dog looking fearsome. The artist had added fangs. I held it up and Holmes regarded it impassively. He collapsed back down on the sofa, closing his eyes.

  ‘Zanders again. Read it to me, if you please, Watson.’

  ‘The caption reads “The Devil of Baker Street with his hound of hell, on the prowl again!” Oh,’ I said, ‘I guess he has dropped the Faust reference.’

  ‘“Hound of hell” is much better. Read on, please.’

  ‘“Sherlock Holmes, whom the police are calling a plague upon the department, leaves his home at 221B Baker Street” – my God, Holmes, they’ve given out your address! – “with a new partner in crime, a dog so vicious that it is rumoured to be the Black Dog of legend, the Hound of Hell. All of London is advised to keep clear until the police can ascertain the movements of this avowed ‘champion of justice’, whom they say has moved to the dark side.”’

  I shook my head and regarded my friend, who now lay still, ghostly pale, eyes at half mast, taking this in. In his current state, he looked far from dangerous. But it was never a good idea to underestimate Sherlock Holmes.

  Mrs Hudson and Billy burst into the room, and the landlady cried out in dismay at the broken glass, the flapping curtains and the icy rain splashing in on the rug and furniture.

  ‘Billy, there are loose boards in the basement. Bring them up, and a hammer and nails,’ said Holmes. ‘You and Watson can keep the rain out, at least.’

  ‘Right away, sir,’ said the page, and ran off.

  ‘Oh, Mr Holmes,’ wailed Mrs Hudson, crossing the room and examining the broken glass. Holmes arose with difficulty, crossed to her and put his good arm around her shoulders.

  ‘There, there, Mrs Hudson,’ said he in an uncharacteristically tender moment. ‘It’s just a broken window, after all. Some young hooligans, no doubt. We’ll patch it up tonight and have the glazier out in the morning.’ She choked back a sob.

  ‘Where is Heffie?’ he wondered suddenly.

  Billy came back in with a piece of wood to cover the window. ‘She took off, Mr Holmes. Soon’s she heard the noise. Ran off down the street after ’em, she did.’

  Holmes seemed less surprised at this than I was. Neither was he worried. He nodded to me, indicating Mrs Hudson, and sank back down on the settee. I dutifully escorted the lady back to her ground floor flat, hoping my comforting words would put her at her ease. I offered her a sedative, which she declined, accepting a tea and brandy instead and insisting I partake with her.

  I was eager to get back to Holmes but lingered a moment longer in her bright yellow kitchen, which struck me in that moment as a haven of domestic sanity after a day of madness. A bouquet of cheap daisies brightened one corner, and near the oven, a rack of freshly baked scones for the morning steamed the chill air above them. I smiled. Our landlady was forever trying to entice Holmes to eat.

  Mrs Hudson warmed her hands on her teacup and looked up at me with tear-stained eyes. ‘Thank goodness you are here, Doctor. It is not the same without you.’

  ‘Have there been other threats?’

  ‘No. But he does not do well alone—’ Mrs Hudson studied my face, ‘although he may have convinced you otherwise. I realize you are married, Doctor, but perhaps if you could just look in, you know … a bit more often?’

  I nodded. I would. And I would not leave him in this state.

  CHAPTER 20

  Might Makes Right

  I had pitched camp in one of the larger chairs in the sitting-room in order to stay close to Holmes. As soon as the window was patched, he had closed his eyes and could not be roused, whereas I was awakened several times during the night to thunder, and the lashing of rain and sleet against the windows and the board we had placed over the broken pane. A draught crept in around this makeshift repair and at one point I added a second blanket to Holmes, returning to my uncomfortable chair.

  It was close to nine in the morning when I was awakened from the depths of a dreamless slumber by Mrs Hudson. It seemed to me that I had slept only an hour, so completely exhausted was I from the day before. Our landlady shook me gently. ‘Doctor! Doctor Watson!’

  I started, struggling to remember where I was, and why I was in a chair and not a bed. All the events of the last two days came back in a rush. It felt like a month had been packed into forty-eight hours with Holmes.

  I looked over at the sofa. He was gone! I heard voices coming from his room, and a moment later an elf-like, dapper fellow with blond curls, whom I recognized as our barber, John Wheeler, emerged. His shop, a block south on Baker Street, was our favourite and I had continued to patronize it even after my move.

  Wheeler left Holmes’s room with a small satchel and a damp white towel. He saluted me as he passed through the sitting-room on his way out. ‘Doctor, good morning! Ah, you could use a trim. Come and see me!’

  I rubbed my stiff neck, all in a fog, as I attempted to make sense of the barber’s presence in Holmes’s bedroom. Mrs Hudson thrust a cup of coffee into my hands. ‘Drink, Doctor.’ She nodded in the direction of his room. ‘He’s eager to see you.’

  I stumbled to my feet, then was obliged to move aside as two workmen carrying a pane of glass the size of our broken window entered in a wave of plaster dust and wiry, East End energy. How had I slept through this continuing parade? What a contrast to my quiet home in Paddington!

  I escaped by carrying my coffee into Holmes’s room. He was reclined on the bed in a clean shirt and waistcoat. His dressing gown was thrown over all, and his splinted wrist rested on a pillow. I noted that he was freshly shaved, with hair combed, which explained John Wheeler’s visit. Of course! Holmes had always been somewhat catlike in his attention to grooming, and I knew well from my wartime shoulder injury that a one-armed shave was a questionable proposition at best.

  My friend was blessed with a remarkable resilience, and he looked as sleek and rested as if nothing untoward had happened to him in months – if you did not notice the bandaged hand, of course. Lestrade’s files were spread on his lap.

  ‘Ah, Watson, you slug-a-bed! You are awake at last!’

  He set down a file, snatched my coffee cup with his one good hand before I could object, and drank it down.

  ‘Not awake yet,’ I remarked testily, rubbing sleep from my eyes. He set my now empty cup among three empty ones
on his bedside table. ‘You, however, should be resting.’ I said.

  I ducked back into the sitting-room. ‘Is there any more coffee, Mrs Hudson?’

  ‘But I just gave – oh, I see. Yes, I’ll be back with another pot, Doctor.’ Thank goodness for Mrs Hudson, who knew our patterns only too well. I picked up the ‘Might Makes Right’ pamphlet and returned to Holmes.

  ‘Where is Heffie?’ I wondered.

  ‘On another errand,’ said he. ‘I asked her to find out a bit more about Judith’s side business. Oh, and Watson – she followed the brick throwers last night.’

  ‘That was dangerous. We should not have allowed it.’

  ‘Ha! Try to control the wind. Heffie knows to keep herself safe. In any case, it was a group of society women who were gossiping among themselves about ridding the city of people in league with the Devil. And about their card game the next day.’

  ‘Ladies? They were out at night, alone? Let me take a look at that wrist.’

  ‘Yes, Watson, you are behind the times! Women are not all retiring violets. Ouch! What are you doing?’

  ‘Checking that the circulation in your fingers is adequate. Can you feel this?’

  ‘Yes, obviously, Watson.’

  ‘Good. Well, I am relieved she did not run into terrorists. Just readers of Gabriel Zanders, no doubt!’

  ‘It will not be terrorists who take down civilization, Watson. It will be a gullible public – average, normal people, manipulated by misinformation and driven by fear.’

  ‘That is a cheery thought,’ I said. ‘I had a look at this pamphlet. Its author, Ragnar Redbeard, whoever he is, would be more than happy to take down civilization. He thinks tyranny is justified. Redbeard! Sounds like a pirate!’

  ‘It is a pseudonym. Social Darwinism, is what this is called, Watson. Survival of the fittest as applied to the social order. The weak should be destroyed. That includes the poor, the ill, the unlucky – that is, of course, most of the population, if not all of us, if considered over time.’

  ‘But … Darwin? I thought you believed in evolution, Holmes, as a scientific thinker.’