The Devil's Due

by Bonnie MacBird

  ‘Brahms and Mendelssohn, Holmes?’ I whispered as I fumbled in my ulster for my pocket lantern. Reaching for his own, Holmes chuckled, and I marvelled at his stamina and humour in the situation.

  I lit our pocket lanterns. Mrs Hudson had been wise to remind us. Every sensible Londoner carried them on such treacherously foggy days. They had, on more than one occasion prevented our being run over by a carriage, and in one instance allowed us to find each other when we were separated in a terrifying chase through Regent’s Park in complete obscurity.

  ‘Hold them both, would you, Watson?’ said Holmes, handing his to me.

  ‘I shall go ahead of you, then. What are we looking for?’

  ‘Stairs. The police report says the bodies were found up on the second floor. I am hoping everything has been left undisturbed.’ We spent some minutes peering around the ground floor, through large storage and packing-rooms, and a warren of offices and hallways, lit only by our dim little devices which I held in front of me. But at last we found the stairs, ascended to the second floor and arrived in a long hallway.

  ‘Now where, Holmes?’ I paused, with both lanterns aloft.

  ‘Hurry, Watson, before that fellow outside changes his mind. We are looking for the owner’s office, and a small showroom just off it. Turn left, here. I have the photographs of the crime scene with me and a vivid image of the police report stored right here.’ He tapped his forehead.

  We made our way carefully, eventually finding the darkened office and a door leading to the showroom. The moment we entered, and before our pocket lanterns could reveal anything, the pale reek of death hit my nostrils. It was faint. The couple had died here nearly a month ago, and yet the unmistakable odour was there.

  I held up the lanterns up, casting a dim light on the entire room.

  ‘Ha!’ cried Holmes, grabbing one of the lanterns from my hand.

  My breath caught. There were two nooses, bizarrely fashioned from strips of bright floral chintz, hanging in the centre of the room. Each had been slashed, presumably to free the bodies, but remained grotesquely in place. I lowered the lanterns slightly, and there, beneath the nooses were two wooden chairs, lying on their sides. The Benjamins had hanged to death here, side by side.

  ‘We are in luck! The scene is intact, or nearly so. I shall be able to determine if this was suicide or murder!’ Holmes was beside himself with delight, shining his lantern around the room.

  My own reaction was revulsion. The incongruous cheer of the loops of fabric hung from the ceiling, their pattern of bright pink and red roses, with blue ribbons dancing across a white background, made the improvised nooses all the more sinister. In the dim lights of our lamps, these strange instruments of death gave a macabre and horrifying aspect, as though a child’s party had been transmuted into a dire tragedy.

  ‘All right, Watson,’ said Holmes cheerfully. ‘The police concluded suicide, or at least did so officially. Apparently despondent over declining profits and pushed to the brink by a deal gone wrong, this couple supposedly did away with themselves after a client cancelled a large order.’

  ‘Something does not feel right about this,’ I said.

  Holmes laughed. ‘Ha, Watson! You are a master of understatement. Death by chintz! No, of course it does not feel right. We are remarkably fortunate that little has been touched. Superstition has for once worked in our favour.’ Holmes’s enthusiasm could occasionally feel quite out of place.

  ‘Here, take my lantern again and follow me with both our lights, Watson. This injury is inconvenient.’

  ‘Of course, Holmes.’ I took his lantern and held both near him.

  He looked about him in the gloom. ‘Now, let us see if we can reconstruct what happened here.’

  He approached the two nooses and examined them. ‘Hold the lights closer, please.’

  I hesitated.

  ‘What are you standing there for, Watson? You have been at a murder scene before. You look transfixed.’

  ‘Sorry, Holmes. It is just … this fabric. Our new kitchen curtains are exactly—’

  ‘Put your mind on the problem, Watson! Hold the light here.’

  I did so and he carefully looked over each noose in detail. It was now after four in the afternoon, and we had been going since early this morning with nothing more than coffee and a hot chocolate. His stamina was legendary, especially when on the trail, but as I have mentioned elsewhere, I had not the professional enthusiasm he had, and I had grown hungry and tired.

  But not so Holmes. Energized, he proceeded to examine the room in great detail. I followed him with the lanterns, in and around bolts of fabric, thumbing through sample books, peering closely along the window ledges, down on the floor to peer at the floorboards, even into the cracks between the floorboards.

  He next inspected the upended chairs – and two comfortable upholstered chairs sitting on an expensive-looking small rug, evidently where clients were seated and shown samples of the costly wares.

  Between these two chairs was a small table on which rested two empty coffee cups and a pewter plate of biscuits. I held one of the lanterns close to the plate.

  ‘Interesting! Every biscuit is broken,’ said Holmes.

  Holmes continued his examination. I followed him around the room a second time, as he moved in fits and starts, examining and re-examining walls, pattern books, an ashtray, the rug – wordlessly, but with the small murmurs and exclamations which so often accompanied the process.

  Holmes returned to the small table twice. Finally, he stood still in the centre of the room, below the nooses, thinking. I waited patiently. At last, he spoke.

  ‘Well, it is clearly as I expected, Watson. Murder. All the signs are here. Two people committed the murder – one very large, the other possibly smaller, but I am not certain of that. The footprints are scarce, the carpet is barren, and the police have trampled through here with their usual lack of discretion.

  ‘However, I have a fairly clear picture of what transpired. The nooses were fashioned from an available bolt of fabric, in no hurry, and they were cut to size and the remnant of the bolt stashed behind these others here. If Mr Benjamin had created the nooses, why would he hide the original bolt of fabric like this? No, it was done in secret, and then the nooses themselves were hidden in a handier spot over here – see the scrap of selvedge lying here, and the corresponding missing bit on this noose? – and then the nooses were brought out. I am thinking they may have been presented, presumably for dramatic effect.’

  ‘Dramatic effect?’

  ‘Yes. Whoever is committing these Alphabet Killings has made certain the victims suffer. Imagine watching these nooses go up, knowing your fate was sealed.’

  ‘Cruel, then.’

  ‘Our perpetrator is fuelled by rage yet behaves in a very calculated manner. Next, two chairs were placed under the nooses. Mr Benjamin was ordered up onto the chair and went willingly, and there the noose was placed around his neck. There was no sign of a struggle in or around his chair.’

  ‘Why on earth, Holmes? Why would he not struggle?’

  ‘There are three possibilities, Watson. One, he did not believe the perpetrators would go through with the act. This is possible but unlikely. Two, they could have held a gun to him, and he feared death by gunshot over hanging.’

  ‘Hmm. That would not have been my choice,’ I remarked, even remembering the gunshot wounds I received in my army days. Hanging, I understood, was exceedingly painful.

  ‘May you never have to make such a choice. The third possibility, and perhaps the most likely, is that he was told his wife would be spared if he cooperated. He was sadly wrong.’

  Holmes moved to stand by the upended chair on the right. I shifted the lights to remain near him.

  ‘Mrs Benjamin was second to die. She entered the room with a tray of refreshments. Upon entering, she saw her husband, either standing on the chair or, more likely by then, dangling dead from the noose.’

  ‘Why more likely?’


  ‘Because there was no sign of a struggle on the chair which held Mr Benjamin. If he had watched what happened next, that would not have been the case.’

  Holmes walked to the door and I followed.

  ‘She then dropped her tray of refreshments here by the door, and was seized, dragged into position, and forcibly put into place, while kicking. There are marks here, by the door, and—’ he dashed back to the chair – ‘over here, on her chair. A handkerchief was inserted as a gag in her mouth. You can see, it is clearly on the floor near her body in the photograph provided by Lestrade. Her chair was then knocked away, and she was hanged to death next to her husband.’

  I took the lights and moved to the desk, where I glanced down at the police photographs, which Holmes had laid there. ‘Yes, I see.’

  ‘The murderers retrieved the refreshment tray and put all back on it, except of course for the coffee which had spilled over there by the door. I found traces in the cracks between the floorboards, although the killers had attempted to clean it up. They placed these items on the table where they would have been put for the visitors.’ He moved to the table and I joined him there.

  ‘The fact that all of the biscuits are broken is further proof that the plate was dropped.’

  ‘Why would they set all this up?’

  ‘It is obvious, Watson. To make the investigators think that the visitors had come for their scheduled viewing and had departed before Benjamin and his wife supposedly committed suicide. The police report states that there was no coffee in the pot although they drew no conclusions from this. It was empty, of course, because it was spilled near the door, and the visitors – our murderers no doubt – were not interested in refreshments. They were merely interested in getting on with the business that brought them here. The biscuits are broken, too, for having fallen near the door.’

  ‘Interesting,’ I said.

  ‘The police report also remarked that there was a large order for fabric on the desk here, with the word “cancelled” written across it.’

  ‘It is not there now.’

  ‘Very good, Watson. It was removed as evidence. Lestrade noted that it was written in a hand which did not match Benjamin’s or his wife’s, but this observation was disregarded. The leading investigator felt this proved that the last visitors had cancelled their order, and then left, thus giving the Benjamins a reason to commit suicide.’

  ‘It was definitely murder then,’ I said, in awe at my friend’s remarkable abilities of observation and deduction. Although at this stage in our friendship, this really should not have surprised me at all.

  ‘Yes. Now if only I could tie this in absolutely with our series. It is likely, it is promising … but it is not certain. And we must be certain, Watson.’

  ‘What would consist of proof to you, Holmes?

  He paused. He crossed to the visitors’ chairs and stood by the small table.

  ‘Proof that the Devil has come for his due?’ said he, turning towards me with a smile. I followed him there with our lights.

  He lifted the tray and picked up something from underneath. It was the back of a card with a blue filigreed design. He turned it over. In the feeble light of our pocket lanterns, the familiar figure on the card seemed to dance and wiggle, mocking us as we stared at it.

  ‘This will do,’ he said with a smile.

  It was, of course, The Devil.

  CHAPTER 25

  Deep Waters

  The fog had thinned at last but darkness had fallen when we left the Benjamin Factory Warehouse. Cabs were scarce in dingy Bermondsey, but I managed at last to secure us a rickety hansom, which lacked the usual blanket, and we headed for Baker Street. It was a long, icy ride north and west, and my friend retreated into a state of contemplation, his eyes closed. I shivered throughout the ride, willing our driver to find the shortest route.

  We arrived soaked and freezing, and Mrs Hudson greeted us with relief at the door. ‘Two notes came for you, Mr Holmes,’ said she. ‘The fire is lit and I’ve some food for you upstairs, Doctor. I’ll bring up some tea. See that he eats, will you?’

  But Holmes had already bounded up the stairs to our sitting-room. I thanked our landlady and followed, finding him still in his wet coat, tearing open the first note.

  ‘From our toxicologist, Watson! Ah, yes! He reports on what he found in the ammoniaphone. Hmm … “A rare substance,” he writes, “which I believe to be a biologically derived toxin, possibly marine, powdered … chemical analysis indicates an extreme vasoconstrictor … could easily cause instant cardiac failure.” Clearly the cause of death, then. He adds that it is not unlike a Hawaiian poison of mythic legend he once encountered.’ Holmes set down the note. ‘Interesting. Possibly marine. The sea? A sailor? Or more likely someone with prodigious research skills.’

  He closed his eyes, lost in thought. I hung up my own dripping coat and gently eased him from his. I was shaking with the cold and could not wait to get warm.

  ‘Sit down by the fire and dry off, Holmes. Doctor’s advice!’ He ignored me and began to pace the room, thinking. I sat close to the hearth and leaned into the warmth, trying to rub feeling back into my numb hands.

  ‘This poison, Holmes. The Goodwins had a collection of seafaring items in their study,’ I remarked. ‘Some relative of theirs. An explorer, I believe.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘That is all, really, Holmes. I know no more. They had a harpoon, a sextant. A brass diver’s casque.’

  ‘They said nothing more of the man?’ asked Holmes. ‘Were they close to him? What relation?’

  ‘A distant uncle, I think. And this relative was lost some time ago.’ I then espied the roast joint on the sideboard. My stomach growled. ‘Oh, and James said he was more of a Jules Verne man, himself.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Holmes. He ripped open the second note.

  I applied myself to making two thick sandwiches. ‘Verne is a bit fanciful for my taste.’ I put one of the sandwiches on a plate and handed it to him. ‘Eat something, Holmes.’ He ignored me and read the second note.

  ‘Good news! The Goodwins are en route to the South of France. I urged them to take themselves far away for a time. If they are the “G” on the list, they will be safe.’

  ‘And if they are involved, Holmes?’

  ‘Ah, you suspect them now, Watson? If they are involved, then the killings will stop. Now … let me jot some notes from the day.’

  Immediately he set to writing on the blackboard in a fury, the rat-a-tat-tat of the chalk like an angry woodpecker. At the force of this onslaught, and without his second hand free to steady it, the blackboard began to move around the room, Holmes following it with feverish concentration.

  I knew better than to laugh at this curious dance, so I got up, found the brick from the night before and positioned it like a kind of doorstop at the base of the blackboard, keeping it from escaping his aggressive ministrations.

  Holmes remained facing his blackboard as I remarked, ‘What of Lady Gainsborough’s husband? The naturalist. The poison?’

  ‘I have already thought of that.’

  ‘Of course, Gainsborough was dead before Enrietti’s murder.’ I added, setting a sandwich on a table near him. He said nothing.

  ‘What about—’

  ‘Watson, I do not require help thinking!’

  He continued in silence for a while.

  Finally, I could not resist. ‘You have sent the Goodwins away. Will they stay, do you think?’ They did not seem the type to scare off easily.

  ‘One hopes. Mycroft will have added his voice – oh, why have we not heard back from my brother?’

  I shrugged and started in on my sandwich like a schoolboy who had been left at school over the Christmas holidays. Holmes left his untouched. He remained at the blackboard for some minutes, then at last collapsed into a chair opposite me. He looked dangerously fatigued.

  ‘Holmes, there is one ray of light. There have been no bombs detonated in London today. Did you not say
there had been one planned for Borough Market? You and Vidocq have managed to avert that, at least. Take heart, Holmes, you have most likely managed to save lives with that information.’

  ‘At least we know that Vidocq followed through in informing Mycroft.’ He paused. ‘Therefore Mycroft is likely to be still in London.’

  ‘You were expecting to hear from him?’

  ‘Yes.’ Holmes leaned in to the fire, finally aware that he was still cold and wet. He struggled with his jacket and I took it from him and helped him into his dressing gown.

  ‘Is that unusual?’

  He nodded, staring into the flames. Mrs Hudson entered with tea.

  ‘Nothing else came, Mrs Hudson?’ asked Holmes. ‘Billy is not back?’

  ‘No, and no. You would hear of it from me,’ said she. ‘Now eat and drink something. It is inconsiderate of you to make Dr Watson and me worry about you like a child who doesn’t know to come in from the rain.’ Holmes looked up at her in surprise. She departed with a look of remonstrance.

  ‘I have been duly scolded,’ said he with a smile.

  ‘She has a point, Holmes. Take a care.’

  Holmes considered his sandwich, thought better about it, and took a sip of tea.

  ‘It is time I brought up my concerns about Mycroft,’ I ventured.

  ‘What concerns?’

  ‘Well, I am not always convinced he has your best interests at heart.’

  ‘Why should he? He has more important things on his mind, Watson.’

  ‘You noticed that the Goodwins do not feel entirely comfortable about him,’ I added.

  ‘Nor I about them. But, Watson, my brother is not an easy man. He does not care if one feels comfortable around him. Do not distract me with this fuzzy thinking.’

  Just then, Heffie burst into our sitting-room in a shower of wet garments and youthful enthusiasm. She was ready to report to Holmes what she had found out about Judith in following her throughout the day.