The Devil's Due

by Bonnie MacBird

  ‘Mr Holmes, my husband left me well looked after,’ pleaded the lady. ‘I can pay anything you wish. Please!’

  Holmes gently untangled himself from her. ‘I am sorry, Lady Eleanor, I cannot stay,’ he said. ‘Good day.’

  Stumbling through the dense fog, it then took us fifteen minutes to flag down a hansom on nearby Gloucester Road. Few were hiring the two-seaters in this weather, and few were on the road. As we departed Kensington, I mused on what felt like an escape.

  Lady Eleanor was not the first woman to desire close personal attention from the great detective, nor would she be the last. Whether for them it was a kind of hero worship, the allure of fame, or the challenge of attracting a man who seemed immune to their charms, I could never tell. But none could sway Sherlock Holmes when pursuing his case or his quarry in his own way.

  Holmes directed the driver to Pentonville Prison, where he intended to question Charles Danforth. We rode for a few minutes in silence, inching through the treacherous brume, our ulsters soon dripping with moisture.

  I held up a hand before my face. Even at arm’s length I could see tendrils of fog in the way. ‘My God, this weather!’ I exclaimed. It was extreme, even for London.

  ‘Orchids,’ said Holmes.

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Consider this, Watson. Six years ago, a tragic series of deaths occurred in the Amazon. It was an orchid-collecting expedition in which eight men went in and only one came out alive. It was a dangerous area, but so many disappeared and never a trace was found. Murder was suspected, but if I recall correctly the case was never closed. If Lord Gainsborough had a hand in this—’

  ‘Oh, I remember reading about that. But it was some time ago.’

  ‘Watson, please recall that we are considering each victim as having a past evil deed to their credit. If this orchid disaster was his doing … well, you see my point. And, of course, there is his known philanthropy later. This fits squarely into the victim profile. Lord Gainsborough, it would seem, could very well be our “G”.’

  ‘But the date of his death … would he not have been the first? And then out of order, alphabetically?’ I asked. ‘It happened roughly when the Anson killing did, correct?’

  ‘Yes. But, except for this, Gainsborough hits all the marks.’

  ‘And the peripheral deaths? Could they all be by the same hand?’

  ‘Some, perhaps. Not directly, but possibly inspired by or in some way caused. It would be too coincidental if they were not, Watson.’

  ‘Then you fear for Lady Eleanor’s safety, Holmes? Even all this time after Lord Gainsborough’s death?’

  ‘Who knows? But Watson, I will not make the same mistake as with Mrs Danforth. I warrant that suicide is not in this lady’s future, she seems made of stronger stuff. However, if her husband’s death is connected, and if she is targeted by this ongoing killer and his plans, at least I can rest easy knowing that she is safe.’

  We continued in silence for several minutes through the increasingly opaque fog which mirrored our thinking. Or at least my thinking.

  ‘Holmes,’ I ventured at last, ‘you are not allergic to cats, are you?’

  He laughed. ‘Not at all,’ said he. ‘Although we may have made a narrow escape from some claws, nonetheless.’

  He glanced sideways at me. A smile flickered over his face and was gone.

  CHAPTER 22

  One Flask Closer

  Pentonville Prison was a far cry from Kensington and a long ride in the open two-seater hansom through the freezing damp. We arrived cold as a herring on ice, and through prior arrangement were ushered into a small room where prisoners met with their solicitors or their family members, when allowed.

  Charles Danforth sat in a wooden chair, wearing handcuffs and leg chains. He looked considerably less menacing than he did in Holmes’s sitting-room, now slumped in striped, ill-fitting prison wear, hair awry but not yet shorn for incarceration, as his trial had not yet taken place. His pale face reflected fury mixed with despair, and bloodshot eyes glared at us from under bushy brows.

  We were seated on stiff wooden chairs, facing him. It was colder in this room than outside.

  ‘Mr Danforth,’ began Holmes, ‘I am here to try to understand the circumstances which led to your actions some days ago. What was it that set you in a rage against your father?’

  The man stared at us but said nothing.

  ‘I understand you thought you had been cut from the will.’

  No answer.

  ‘Of course, your family reports that there were strained relations between the two of you, leading to the incident.’

  Still nothing. The man’s lips curled in a sneer.

  ‘But something specific arrived to transform this ill will into a murderous fury.’

  ‘Get away from me,’ the prisoner said.

  Holmes sighed and rubbed his injured arm absentmindedly. He glanced at me. ‘Ah, it is chilly in here. Do you have your flask, Watson? I could do with a sip of brandy.’

  I carried a flask of brandy with me at all times. Although it was often a joke when people said such things were ‘for medicinal purposes’, in my case it was the literal truth.

  I removed it from my pocket, wondering if Holmes was flagging. He took a quick sip, handed it back, and turned to the prisoner. Danforth stared at my flask like a man parched, following it with his eyes as I replaced it in my pocket. Ah, of course.

  Holmes continued, ‘Tell me about your father.’

  Danforth was silent again.

  ‘Something must have set you off. Surely your solicitor tried to find some mitigating circumstance that could affect your sentencing?’

  ‘Give me a drink,’ said Danforth.

  Holmes consulted his pocket watch. ‘I would like to offer you something in exchange for your detailed and candid information. I believe I have something that you would appreciate.’

  ‘A drink.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A curse on you!’ The prisoner spat. We both pulled back. The noxious spittle missed us both, thankfully.

  ‘You realize, of course, Mr Danforth, that you will very likely hang, or if not, then suffer a long sentence of hard labour?’

  Danforth did not reply.

  ‘Hard labour, you may not be aware, is often the treadmill, as it is here at Pentonville, on which many men founder and die. Elsewhere, it might be crushing stones into gravel with a hammer, which breaks strong men’s backs. Or you might find yourself turning a crank to a quota, all alone in your cell, until you collapse. Or perhaps picking oakum until your hands are turned into raw, bleeding meat. Day in and day out, until you are dead.’

  Danforth gaped at us in horror.

  ‘That is right. Most people are unaware of the details of a hard labour sentence,’ said Holmes casually.

  I was not unaware and I shuddered at the reminder of this sad reality. I recalled a year ago when Holmes himself was threatened with such a sentence. Sadly, given time at hard labour, it was the strongest and most resilient men who would last the longest, and therefore suffer the most.

  ‘I would choose hanging,’ murmured the prisoner, his eyes glassy.

  ‘As would I,’ said Holmes. ‘Hard labour is often a slow death sentence. But you may not be given the choice.’

  He paused, allowing the words to sink in. ‘Mr Danforth, it is possible I could help you to receive a sentence of time without hard labour … at one of the less draconian institutions.’

  I wondered if Holmes really had the power to do that.

  ‘I am listening.’

  ‘I ask you again. Tell me about your father. The relationship was strained before the murder. Why?’

  ‘My father was despicable.’

  ‘I understand Sebastian Danforth was a highly respected MP, made his fortune in paper, was an amateur poet, and was being considered for Queen’s honours for his donations to – what was it? – literacy programmes for the poor. Everyone should learn to read, wasn’t that it?’<
br />
  ‘He was vermin.’

  ‘That is a harsh judgement. Why?’

  ‘Blackmail. He dealt in letters. Letters of all kinds. He enjoyed ruining people. A sadist, actually. He was still at it when he died.’

  A violent murderer who tortured his wife was now denouncing his father as a sadist. What ghastly goings on took place behind society doors.

  ‘Interesting. Letters. So you killed him with a letter opener. Piquant,’ said Holmes. He withdrew his cigarette case and offered it to me. I declined, then realized he needed me to light one for him. I took a cigarette, did so, and handed it to him. He took a long draw on it. Danforth watched him hungrily.

  ‘He concealed his true nature well,’ said the prisoner.

  ‘So many criminals do. Is that why you killed him? You must have known about his blackmailing for a long time. What set you off on that particular night? Did he threaten someone you cared for?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Certainly not your wife.’

  ‘No. What do you mean by that?’

  Holmes shrugged. ‘Nothing. Why did you think your father had cut you from the will?’

  ‘He did not, as it turns out,’ said Danforth, bitterly.

  ‘Yes, but why did you think he had?’

  ‘Give me a drink and I will tell you.’

  ‘Tell me first.’

  ‘And a cigarette.’

  ‘Yes, to both. But talk first,’ said Holmes.

  ‘Telegram.’

  ‘You received a telegram. Now we are getting somewhere. What did it say?’

  ‘It said “Your father sees you. David will inherit all now.”’ And also—’

  ‘Sees you?’

  The man looked down.

  ‘You took that to mean that he somehow saw, or at least knew of, some criminal behaviour of yours? Burning your wife Constance with cigarettes, perhaps?’ asked Holmes.

  Danforth started, his chin trembled. A tear escaped his eye and rolled down his cheek. He yanked at his hands, cuffed to the chair, but could do nothing to stop it. ‘Do not speak her name!’ he roared, turning wild eyes in Holmes’s direction. ‘I will kill you.’

  Holmes sighed.

  ‘In any case, you believed your father had changed his will. How might the telegram sender have learned of your misdeeds?’

  The prisoner yanked his hands in a paroxysm of anger.

  ‘Again, Mr Danforth, who do you think could have informed him of this? Might your wife Constance have done so? Or is that what you believed at the time?’

  ‘No! Constance would never tell.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The shame.’ He grimaced at the memory, and a look of hatred contorted his features. ‘She deserved it. She knew it.’

  I felt a wave of revulsion. Fiends like this often convinced themselves they were ‘made’ to do things by others.

  ‘I see,’ said Holmes. ‘Women can be infuriating. Unfaithful. Treacherous.’

  Of course he could not mean that.

  ‘Oh, she was, she was!’

  ‘Perhaps it was she, in fact, who told your father?’

  ‘Never, I say. She would never.’

  ‘Hmm. What else did the telegram say?’

  ‘Said my father got a letter. But my father then denied it.’

  Holmes stiffened. ‘I see. This telegram – anonymous, I presume?’

  Danforth shrugged.

  ‘Did you not try to trace it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You just believed it and acted,’ marvelled Holmes. The guard had stepped away. Holmes leaned in to me. ‘Watson, how full is that flask?’ he whispered.

  ‘Completely full, minus your small sip.’ I took it out and held it in such a way that it could not be seen by the guard, who had been posted just outside the door, and who regarded us periodically through a large window.

  At the sight of it, Danforth’s eyes gleamed. Yes, alcohol surely had this man in its grasp.

  ‘We shall give you all the brandy in this flask if you recount verbatim the telegram you received,’ said Holmes.

  I shook the flask. The liquid sloshed. Danforth licked his lips.

  ‘Word for word,’ said Holmes.

  Danforth closed his eyes. ‘It said, “Your father sees. Constance ruins all. You are burned. David now inherits everything.”’

  ‘That is all? Nothing else?’

  ‘No. Give me—’

  ‘At the time, who did you think sent you this telegram?’

  ‘Perhaps some snitch in my father’s solicitor’s office. Someone who knew of the revised will.’

  ‘Which was non-existent.’

  ‘How was I to know that! You asked me what I thought. Now give me the drink!’

  Holmes held up a gloved hand. ‘No indication of the sender? Not an initial? Nothing?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. An initial. No name. Give me—!’

  I waved the flask at him but held it back.

  ‘What initial?’ insisted Holmes.

  ‘It was … it was … “L”!’

  ‘Ah!’ cried Holmes, triumphant. ‘So devilishly clever.’ He nodded to me. Lucifer. ‘Time to go, Watson!’

  In a moment, Danforth was gulping down the brandy. I stood to block the guard’s view of this forbidden interchange as I poured it down his throat. One part of me despised the man, but at the same time I pitied him.

  As we departed Pentonville, Holmes directed me to flag down a four-wheeler. We were lucky to get one. It was now two in the afternoon and I hoped he would direct the cab driver to Marylebone and home. To my disappointment, he gave the man an address in Notting Hill, the home of Theodore Clammory, the third – or possibly fourth – victim of the Alphabet Killer.

  As our carriage moved off, I asked Holmes if indeed he had the power to get Danforth imprisoned elsewhere.

  ‘It is a moot point, Watson. The man will surely hang.’

  CHAPTER 23

  Zebras

  Our next stop was Notting Hill. Mr Theodore Clammory had suffered a typically violent death at the hand of our quarry. He had begun a chain of barber shops, made a fortune, and then donated half his income to provide services to veterans of the Boer War, of which he was one. He had been found in one of his barber shops with his throat slit by a straight razor, next to his chief barber and business partner, similarly dispatched.

  We headed south-west on Marylebone Road, in the direction of his home.

  ‘Watson, we progress. I begin to form a picture of our killer, and absolutely to confirm my theory. Danforth was compelled by that mysterious telegram from ‘L’ to kill his father, and the elder Danforth’s history as a secret blackmailer fits the pattern perfectly. Philanthropists with dark pasts. We have only to confirm that Anson, Benjamin and Clammory similarly comply to the model.’

  ‘And then what, Holmes?’

  ‘And then … we shall hope that the evidence somehow reveals something telling about the killer.’

  We at last arrived at a beautiful new terraced home. Not so long ago, Notting Hill was known for its pig farms, but over recent years it had grown rapidly from a rural to an expensive neighbourhood filled with parks and green spaces, and newer, elegant homes. As graceful and as these new four-storey buildings were, however, the dense fog which continued to cling to the streets gave even this area a feeling of foreboding.

  We rang. The door was answered by an elderly woman of indeterminate age, pale, wizened, and garbed in a nun’s habit, complete with wimple. Her face resembled those of the dried apple dolls I had once seen in an exhibit of folk crafts that Mary had insisted on visiting.

  We introduced ourselves, and Holmes explained that he was investigating a series of murders which now appeared linked, ‘Including that of the late Mr Clammory. Are you a relative, madam?’

  ‘Sister,’ said the woman, ‘Sister Bernadette.’ Behind her, the house was dark and curiously empty. Nothing, not an umbrella stand, nor a table, nor a mirror was visible from the door.

  ‘I
see. And are you related to the deceased?’ prompted Holmes, gently.

  ‘Yes. Are you deaf? My name is Sister Bernadette, and Theodore Clammory was my brother.’ Her voice was like rustling dried leaves. ‘‘I suppose I will have to invite you in. But be quick, I am very busy.’

  Minutes later, we sat with her in a once grand but now entirely inhospitable room. It had beautiful walls decorated in the French style with elaborate boiserie panels and glittering brass lights with crystals, none of which were lit. The intricate wooden floor was chipped and bare, and the few pieces of furniture huddled near the window were old and cheap, as if rescued from some seedy hotel. The fireplace was dark and there were no other lights. Several candles sat unlit, with only a dim glow barely penetrating from the front window. The afternoon had grown dimmer, the dense fog now the colour of mould.

  It was as if this nun was serving penance.

  We sat, growing increasingly cold, while she succinctly and with even less charm than the furnishings, answered Holmes’s questions. Sister Bernadette was the only relative of the successful Theodore Clammory. She had temporarily left her nunnery, St Cecilia’s in the Loire Valley in France, to return to London to dispose of his estate, the proceeds of which she, as sole beneficiary, was in the process of donating to her order.

  When Holmes asked her why she did not simply hire the family solicitor to take care of these duties, she replied, ‘There is no one connected with my brother whom I trust.’

  The room was icy. I wrapped my scarf higher around my neck, worried that Holmes, so lean and with his recent injury, would be suffering more than I in the cold. But he seemed impervious, and simply pressed forward with his questions. In due course, he found precisely what he needed.

  ‘If you don’t mind my indelicacy, Sister, I must ask you some personal questions.’

  ‘And I may answer them. Or not.’ I detected a flicker of a smile from the pinched face. I noticed that her eyes were a startling blue, and I wondered what she had once looked like before becoming Sister Bernadette.

  Holmes smiled back, but his posture revealed, at least to me, a touch of impatience.

  ‘How did your brother make his fortune, precisely? It takes a lot of money to open a series of establishments all through London, and even, I am told, in Birmingham and Manchester. I presume that you were not raised in wealth?’