The Devil's Due

by Bonnie MacBird

  ‘Why? Because I took my vows?’ The nun stared at Holmes with eyes narrowed, challenging him.

  ‘All right, let me begin with another, more general question. Can you please relate to me your brother’s history? What made him go into the business of opening a series of barber shops?’

  The nun snorted. ‘Well, Theodore had to do something after his disastrous time in the army. And he fell in with a despicable character.’

  ‘What disaster befell him in the army?’

  ‘The Boer War?’ I asked. ‘I am a military man myself.’

  ‘Both my brothers – Thaddeus was there, too – were at Majuba Hill,’ said Sister Bernadette. ‘Now, that was a disaster.’

  It was indeed. In February of 1881, in a notoriously ill-prepared move, the British lost more than 200 men to fewer than ten enemy casualties.

  ‘Some say both of them behaved dishonourably in the field. Tried to turn tail and flee, it was said, though they were hardly the only ones. Apparently an orderly tried to stop them and they nearly decapitated him in response. A witness saw it all, but he was discredited and later died, knifed in an alley in Bordeaux while on leave.’

  ‘Knifed by whom?’ asked Holmes.

  The nun shrugged, but her expression indicated she had her theories.

  ‘I see,’ said Holmes. ‘Do you think this rumour is true, about your brothers’ attempted desertion?’

  ‘My brothers were without morals. I pray for their souls daily.’

  ‘Do you recall the name of the man knifed in the alley?’

  ‘No. I turn my eyes to God.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Holmes. ‘What happened to your brothers after this?’

  ‘Ultimately, both received their due,’ said Sister Bernadette, a small bitter smile contorting only the lower half of her face. ‘Thaddeus died while abroad, not long after, of dysentery. And you know what happened to Theodore.’

  We did. His throat was cut from ear to ear. I somehow intuited that this did not displease his sister. Whatever beneficence she might have harboured may have been beaten out of her by later life events. I wished to give the woman the benefit of the doubt.

  ‘How then, did your brother arrive at his successful business?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘He and I inherited our parents’ estate. I gave all my share to my Order. With his, Theodore bought this house and began his business with that horrible Ignatius Johnson. My brother’s lifestyle rivalled that of royalty, he was so self-indulgent!’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘This house. His appetite. He ballooned into a caricature of himself; indeed, he was once portrayed in Punch!’ said the nun, the thought as distasteful as though he had run naked through the pigsties that used to fill this once muddy and disreputable area.

  ‘And can you tell me more about his partner in life and death, Mr Johnson?’ asked Holmes.

  The lady recoiled in disapproval. ‘That was his chief barber, and my brother had an unhealthy relationship with him. Theodore financed a series of shops specializing in all sorts of self-indulgent grooming for a certain kind of man.’

  Holmes and I looked at each other, puzzled.

  ‘A dandy?’ I asked.

  Her rheumy eyes flicked over to me, then up and down, taking in my clothing, shoes, hair, everything. Apparently, I met with her approval and she answered, ‘Yes, those kind.’

  Holmes hid the raised eyebrow he flashed to me. This woman! I held back a laugh.

  ‘They were successful?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Who was successful?’ snapped the nun.

  ‘The shops. They did well?’

  ‘Wildly,’ said she. She flicked her tongue as if to discharge a bitter taste. ‘His fortune grew. I suggested to him that he indulge himself a little less – Theodore loved his parties and his feasts – and instead donate to a worthy cause.’

  ‘You were here often, then, in London?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘I visited once in a while.’

  ‘Of course, you were hoping he would donate to the Sisters of St Cecilia?’ said Holmes sympathetically.

  ‘I was, but it was not to be. He set up a fund for the relatives of those who died in the Battle of Majuba Hill. It quite polished his reputation. But I knew the underbelly. Oh, I knew.’

  ‘Theodore was motivated by guilt, then?’ I suggested.

  Her eyes flicked once more to me. ‘My brother did not suffer from anything like guilt. Obligation, perhaps. He had been pressured by others.’

  ‘I see,’ said Holmes. ‘Let us turn to his recent murder. Were you present at the investigation?’

  There was the sudden, eerie sound of flapping nearby, from the hall just outside the room. It was disturbing. The light from the window had dimmed further and the room was now shrouded in darkness.

  ‘Yes. I was staying with my brother at the time,’ said the woman. ‘I do not think the police expended much effort.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Well, Ignatius Johnson was clearly the culprit.’

  This puzzled Holmes. ‘Why do you say this? He was found dead next to your brother.’

  She shrugged and chuckled, a particularly mirthless huffing sound that reminded me of a cat choking on a piece of meat. ‘Just my theory. Although it would have been difficult for him to confess. After killing my brother, he slit his own throat.’

  The flapping sounded again.

  ‘What is that sound?’ I asked. ‘Are there pigeons, Sister?’

  ‘Yes. There is a flaw in the ceiling upstairs. They keep coming in.’

  I cleared my throat and pulled out my watch. ‘Holmes, I think we should best—’

  But he was not to be deterred. ‘Ignatius Johnson left no note?’

  The nun shook her head.

  ‘About Johnson, have you any detail on his wound?’ asked he. I thought this unlikely, but my friend’s instincts were correct.

  Her eyes glistened. Not only did she have detail, but she relished it, clearly. ‘From ear to ear,’ she said, licking her lips. ‘Sliced. Deep. Almost to the bone.’

  ‘Slit his own throat from ear to ear, to the bone?’ said Holmes in disbelief. ‘Why, I would imagine that is rather hard to do. One might, er, fatigue halfway through.’ He pantomimed doing that with his good hand.

  Sister Bernadette smiled and made the same gesture but finishing the swoop triumphantly.

  ‘Impossible, I would say’, said I. ‘Speaking as a doctor. Are you sure it was quite literally ear to ear, or perhaps just a general description of the wound?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said the nun. ‘I saw it. It was ear to ear.’ She pulled back her wimple and indicated a point just at the base of each tiny, hairy ear. ‘Here … all the way to here.’ She replaced her wimple, eyes gleaming, rather gleeful about the whole thing.

  ‘Thank you very much, Sister!’ said Holmes abruptly rising. ‘Watson, shall we be off? We have additional stops. We can see ourselves out.’

  We stood up to go, but Holmes turned again.

  ‘Oh! I am sorry, but I have one more question, Sister. Was a Tarot card left at the site of these deaths, by any chance, or did you see one in the house?’

  ‘Tarot card!’ she said with disgust. ‘No! Those are the works of the Devil!’

  ‘Indeed. Good day, Sister,’ said Holmes and we walked to the door of the room. I peered down the darkened hallway and, some twenty yards away, to the front door, lit from above by a clerestory.

  I glanced up. Nothing flying was visible, but that was not to say they weren’t there. The notion of bats crossed my mind. Holmes must have had the same thought. We exchanged a look and made a dash for it.

  Once again in a cab, this time a hansom again, we had no opportunity to get warm after that chilly visit. It was not the mere cold, either. There was something decidedly unhealthy in that house. My heart sank when Holmes gave the cabbie an address in Bermondsey. It would be a freezing trip across the river.

  ‘Holmes, do you think that Sister Bernadette may be in
volved some way in her brother’s death? Might she have killed him?’

  ‘No. She was left-handed – did you notice how she demonstrated cutting one’s own throat? The police report stated the cuts were by a right-handed killer. Lestrade, who has taken lessons, managed to get at least this noted.’ Holmes flashed a smile. ‘I looked at the photographs from the Clammory carnage. Clammory and Johnson were both in barber chairs, draped as though for a shave, both with necks slashed ear to ear, as described by that gentle nun.’

  ‘Ha!’

  ‘But Johnson also had a wound in the stomach, and much less blood from the neck wound,’ Holmes pointed out.

  Our hansom made good time through elegant Knightsbridge, our driver aiming for Westminster Bridge for our crossing to the South Bank and on to Bermondsey. I was so exhausted, hungry and chilled at this point, I kept an eager eye out for a hot chocolate or a coffee stand. They were everywhere except when you needed one. The fog had thinned just enough for me to spot one at last, and I insisted, against Holmes’s objections, on buying us both a steaming hot drink. We were soon rattling through the dense mist again.

  ‘So he was stabbed, then dragged into the chair and the job was finished, do you think?’ I said.

  ‘Yes. Perhaps he walked in on the scene, struggled with the killer and was stabbed. Or, if he was close to Clammory, perhaps he was an intended victim. Remember that this killer wants someone close the victim to die as well. I suspect two killers in this instance, or one very strong one to drag the barber after stabbing him.’

  ‘But you knew all this going in. We have learned nothing of use here from the Sister!’

  ‘Not true, Watson. We have made progress! We know of a previous transgression on the part of the victim, a cowardly if not downright evil deed during the Boer War, for which Theodore Clammory’s philanthropy seems to have been an attempt to make amends. That is the pattern exactly. And we confirmed the second death was someone the victim cared about.’

  We rode for a few minutes in silence. I thought of the terrible tragedies that seemed to follow, one upon the other.

  ‘The pattern, yes.’ He sighed. ‘Although no card. No Devil.’

  ‘Are you sure, Holmes?’

  ‘Lestrade was on this one. He was thorough. No card.’

  We looked at each other.

  ‘Bats, though,’ I said.

  ‘Pigeons,’ said Holmes. ‘Never start your theory with a zebra when a horse explains it all.’

  ‘Except when on a case with Sherlock Holmes.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Bats,’ I said.

  We tried not to laugh.

  CHAPTER 24

  Fabric of Doubt

  We entered the smoky, industrial Bermondsey area and immediately the acrid smell of leather tanning mixed with the burnt sugar odour of the Peak Freane biscuit bakery wove pungently through the fog to make our nostrils sting. Our next stop was the Benjamin Fabrics warehouse. There, James Benjamin and his wife Bertha had been found hanged, side by side, apparent suicides. Benjamin had been a leader in his industry, with almost a monopoly on a certain coveted type of chintz fabric. I had a vague image of ribbons and flowers, perhaps mentioned by my wife.

  ‘Watson, this morning in the police files I read an interesting fact about Benjamin Fabrics,’ said Holmes as our four-wheeler rattled through London. ‘Some years ago, James Benjamin bought out two of his competitors, combining three companies into one larger one. A newspaper called this “gaining a stranglehold” on the production and distribution of this particular fabric.’

  ‘Stranglehold? Well, that is certainly telling!’

  ‘But there is more. One of the businesses he absorbed was that of his own brother, who subsequently hanged himself. Benjamin, a bachelor, then married his own brother’s wife, whom he apparently coveted from the first. His business subsequently soared, though had a dip recently.’

  ‘Well, there is the dark deed you seek, Holmes. For what type of philanthropy was this man known?’ I wondered.

  ‘His was not precisely a philanthropy, but he did set up a generous pension for his employees. This was lauded in the papers as a model business practice, which more companies should adopt.’

  ‘A man of mixed, er, accomplishments.’

  ‘As we seem to discover, Watson, each Luminarian’s past transgression seems to connect rather poignantly to the method of their dispatch.’

  ‘Here is a question, though, Holmes. If the Goodwins selected their honourees on the basis of dark secrets in their past, how did they, and then how did the perpetrator of these crimes, have this information?’

  ‘An excellent question. Consider this. Those who are being recruited are invited to the parties. A large quantity of alcohol, ganja and perhaps other intoxicants are provided. From this, one can infer that indiscreet confidences might have been shared. The Goodwins are far more nuanced than they appear. Dark secrets may have been carefully elicited by them – remember that my brother has pointed out their sophistication in politics. Assuming the killer starts with the Luminarian list, he then seeks out these buried stories of evil-doing.’

  ‘Unless the killer is one of the Goodwins. I presume that is why you don’t ask them?’

  ‘For the moment, yes, Watson. But let me ask you something. Do you suspect them?’

  ‘I would find it hard to believe.’

  Holmes smiled but said nothing.

  We arrived at our destination in Bermondsey. An enormous yellow-brick building loomed up out of the fog with the sign Benjamin Fabrics over the door. However, not only was it closed for business, but the doors were locked with chains and several padlocks, and the ground floor windows were boarded up.

  We traversed the circumference of the building with no luck. At last, Holmes found in an adjacent close a side door that was neither boarded nor chained. He tried the handle, then sighed. ‘Ah, Watson, we face defeat. I cannot pick a lock, hampered as I am.’ He rattled the door impatiently with his good hand. ‘I don’t suppose you could … oh, of course not! You haven’t a criminal bone in your body.’

  ‘If you mean lock-picking, Holmes, you are correct, I could no sooner do that than rob a bank. However, step aside.’

  Holmes looked at me quizzically. He moved aside and I gave the door a mighty kick. There was the sound of splintering wood and it gave way. But before we could enter, a tall, muscular man in filthy corduroy with hair like greasy straw rounded a corner at the end of the close and ran towards us.

  ‘Wot you be wantin’ here?’ he shouted. As he reached us I noticed he was brandishing a cosh, with a look of menace on his pockmarked face.

  I stepped in front of Holmes, raising my stick in a defensive pose. ‘Stand down, man,’ I said. ‘We mean no harm.’

  He shrugged, and after a moment sizing us up he lowered the cosh, staring at the broken door which now hung from its hinges. ‘Cor, look what you done!’ He looked down the close towards the main street, cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, ‘Police! Police!’

  ‘There, there, good fellow! We are not thieves. I have urgent business here,’ said Holmes. ‘I have come to see about some fabrics.’

  ‘So you kick down the door? Ain’t you figured it out? We’re closed.’

  ‘But I have an appointment. Is there an office nearby?’

  ‘The whole business is shut down. Nobody wants to buy nothing from a house of death.There ain’t no appointments.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘I’m the watchman. ’Til the family can sell this place,’ the man said. He glanced down at the damage. ‘You’ll pay for that bloody door.’

  ‘Give him cash, Watson,’ Holmes said to me, then turned to the man. ‘While my friend finds some change, do tell me, is the fabric still inside?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Everything is still inside?’

  ‘I just told you, yes. The Benjamins killed theirselves in there. No one has set foot in since. And no one is going to.’

  Next to m
e, I could feel Holmes tense in anticipation.

  ‘Sir, my name is Mr Brahms. I am a fabric buyer. I don’t care one whit about any “house of death”. That is so much superstitious nonsense to my mind. I wager the new owners of this place would be furious if you turned away someone who could bail them out of the financial trough they now find themselves in.’

  ‘I can’t let no one in.’

  ‘It can do no harm. Mendelssohn here and I know there are some chintz designs based on Chinoiserie that would suit our buyers down to the ground. Don’t we, Felix?’

  Felix Mendelssohn? I nodded, holding back a smile.

  The man hesitated. ‘You might be thieves.’

  Holmes sighed. ‘I say, sir! Do you really think that Mr Mendelssohn and I could hide huge bolts of fabric in our ulsters here and steal away with a fortune hidden on our persons? No! We shall simply look over the stock in order to make an offer to your employer. We may very well be interested in a large purchase, a very large purchase indeed, if the price is right.’ Holmes pretended to rub his hands together in excitement as if thrilled at the thought of acquiring a quantity of fabric at an excellent price. It was a reasonable simulation, given that his left hand was immobile.

  ‘Wot about this door, then?’

  Holmes smiled at me, and I felt in my pocket for change. Finding some, I withdrew it and began to count it.

  ‘Have you the keys?’ asked Holmes of the man.

  ‘Yes, but I ain’t goin’ in there.’ He kept his eyes on the money.

  ‘You do not need to. Felix, pay for the repair.’

  I handed the man some coins. His face lit up and he pocketed them with pleasure. His tune changed instantly.

  ‘There ain’t no lights in there. They electrified, but the electricity is turned off.’

  ‘No matter. We have our pocket lanterns with us. You have yours, Felix?’

  I nodded. ‘That I do.’ I could not for the life of me remember Brahms’s Christian name.

  After a charitable donation of several more coins, the fellow volunteered to be our lookout. In a moment, we found ourselves alone in a vast, deserted warehouse. As predicted, there were no lights inside, and given the late hour and dense fog, the few windows in the building afforded little illumination. It was nearly pitch black.