The Falling Curtain (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 3)
Page 14
Dr. Gennery shook his head ruefully. “People are stumbling across new caves all the time, Dr. Watson, and you are correct that most folks immediately notify the authorities. But there are some less scrupulous folk who keep the find to themselves, in hopes that their discovery may contain a treasure hoard.”
“Is such a thing possible?”
He shrugged. “Not to our knowledge, Doctor. But the British countryside is replete with hoards from all manners of invaders: Romans, Saxons, Norsemen, even Royalists. It is always possible that some poor soul might have buried a hoard in one of the caves in advance of some approaching army, and was sadly never able to return and reclaim it.”
I glanced over at Holmes, who appeared to be following Dr. Gennery’s tale with ill-concealed scorn. “Do you think, Holmes, that this could be connected with the early British objects stolen from the Museum? Some unscrupulous collector of such treasures?”
Holmes shook his head. “It is a capital mistake to theorize in the absence of facts, Watson. For all we know, like those Neolithic animals before him, Mr. Kidd could have simply fallen down a hole from which he was unable to climb back out.”
“I assure you, Mr. Holmes, that Mr. Kidd was an experienced spelunker,” protested our guest.
“Even the world’s greatest climber would be hard pressed to do so if his leg was broken, for example. In any case, I fail to see how we can be of assistance?” said Holmes, tersely.
Dr. Gennery licked his lips. “Well, Mr. Holmes, it is the impression of the board of directors that something foul is afoot. I am not saying that there is any truth to the legend of the Hag, mind you. As a man of science, my first inclination is to discount such notions in favor of a more rational explanation. But Mr. Kidd vanished for a reason, and we mean to see that he is found. And there is no doubt that you are the best man in England when it comes to getting to the bottom of a mystery.”
I have mentioned previously that Holmes was on occasion susceptible to such flattery, but in this case, he resisted it. “You are correct, of course, Dr. Gennery. However, if your tale is accurate, then your case is a timely one if you wish to find Mr. Kidd alive. I am afraid that I am unable to offer assistance at the present instant, for my attention must remain fixed in London.”
“Perhaps I could go, Holmes?” I volunteered.
Holmes peered at me for a moment. “You feel strongly about this, Watson?”
“I do,” I replied, nodding vigorously.
“Very well,” Holmes slowly agreed. “But I cannot spare you either. For there is no one else I trust fully in the present matter.”
“But we cannot fail to assist Dr. Gennery and Mr. Kidd,” I protested, waving my hand at the anxious curator sitting before us.
“No, you are correct, Watson. Fortunately, I have someone who owes me a very great favor, and I am willing to call it in now.”
“Who is that?”
“Barker.”[71]
“Your rival from the Surrey shore?”
“Exactly. He is not in my league, of course, but he is also not without some small merits of his own. I will wire to him and ask him to join you, Dr. Gennery, at Haybridge immediately. I am confident that he can rapidly solve your little mystery.”
Dr. Gennery looked somewhat disappointed by this decision from Holmes, but as I saw him to the door, I assured him that Holmes was understating Barker’s talents. For no detective could be seriously considered a rival of Holmes without also possessing a very great deal of both acumen and skill.
§
Holmes had no sooner dispensed with dictating his promised wire to Barker when Mycroft and Inspector Lestrade appeared. Considering how we were staying in Mycroft’s rooms, it was no small irony to see him approaching his brother like any other client in need.
“Mr. Holmes, Mr. Mycroft and I are in need of your assistance with a small matter,” said Lestrade.
Holmes sighed and glanced at his brother. “Really, Mycroft. I am engaged at the moment. Can you not figure it out yourself?”
The elder Holmes shrugged. “Perhaps I have spent too long pondering the intricate dance of nations, Sherlock, but I fail to see how precisely it was done. I think this is more along your line of expertise.”
“Very well. Pray tell what great catastrophe has occurred.”
“A train has gone missing,” said Lestrade, with some hesitancy.
Holmes laughed. “Trains do not go missing, Inspector. People go missing. But the British railway companies take great pains to ensure that their trains fail to vanish from sight.”
“Yes, well, technically it was only the brake van[72] and rear-most carriage.”
“A prank?” I interjected. “Some bored aristocrats, perhaps?”
Lestrade shook his head. “The train was moving at the time.”
Holmes’ eyebrows rose, a sure indication that his interest had been piqued. “Do you mean to say, Lestrade, that a moving train lost its final two cars and no one knows what happened to them?”
“That is exactly correct, Mr. Holmes. At first it was thought that they must have become uncoupled by some freak accident. But in that case, the next train along would have happened upon them.”
“And that did not occur?”
“Not at all. The line superintendent then feared that the cars somehow ran off the tracks, but a close inspection of the entire length revealed that no such thing occurred.”
“How many people are missing?”
“Only one. The guard.”
“So it was a freight train? It must have been carrying something quite valuable for my brother to become involved.” He glanced over at Mycroft.
The man chuckled, his corpulent belly shaking with rueful mirth at Holmes’ perception. “That is correct, Sherlock. This train had originated at Waltham Abbey.”
“Is that not where King Harold Godwinson was buried after the Battle of Hastings?” I asked.[73]
Holmes looked at me queerly. “I never get your limits, Watson. Why exactly you chose to clutter your brain with such unimportant trivia is beyond me. I presume that Mycroft is more concerned with a certain factory that sprung up at Waltham after the monks were dissolved from their lands by good King Henry?”
Mycroft nodded his agreement, while Holmes proceeded to explain. “You see, Watson, there are only three Royal Gunpowder Mills on our shores. Faversham in Kent, Ballincollig in Ireland, and Waltham Abbey. For reasons of security, their identities remain largely unknown to the general public, though of course, those with an especial interest in methods of violence are aware of their existence. It was from the idyllically-named Waltham Abbey that poured the agent which stoked the engine of the three wars: against Napoleon, in Crimea, and against the Boers. So I assume that a load of gunpowder was seized from the missing van?”
“It was guncotton, actually” replied Mycroft. “Bound for Canary Wharf, where a ship would take it to Gibraltar.”
Holmes frowned. “An odd thing to steal, don’t you think, brother? Useful for the Royal Navy, of course, but hardly to the common criminal. Especially as dynamite is much more stable, and therefore far safer if you plan to blow up a bank door.”
“We are not here to debate why they stole it, Sherlock,” said Mycroft testily. “We are here to determine how it was done.”
“Then tell me the precise details, if you will.”
“The train set out as usual at five minutes past three o’clock,” began Lestrade.
“Do you mean to say that they have regularly transported this highly dangerous substance at a predictable time? That was most careless of them.”
“Yes, I have already brought this to the attention of the Comptroller of the Mills,” interjected Mycroft. “The man pleaded difficulties of avoiding conflicts with passenger trains coming from the north, but that is simply no excuse. This practice has been discontinued effective immediately.”
Holmes nodded. “Pray continue.”
Lestrade continued his narration. “The train passed through En
field Lock on schedule and without incident. The station master confirms that the brake van was still attached. Same with Brimsdown and Ponders End. The master at Angel’s Road admitted, under some pressure, to being asleep at the time, while the man at Park was occupied by a call of nature. So it was the master at Tottenham Hale who was the one that finally noticed the missing van. He telegraphed ahead to Stratford station, which signaled for the advancing train to stop.[74] An inspection quickly confirmed that the last two vans had been uncoupled. But the van and carriage could not have travelled far under their own power.”
“Was the guard a loyal man?”
Mycroft nodded. “In point of fact, he was a relatively new hand.”
Holmes sat for a moment with his fingers pressed together and then leapt from his seat, his injuries of two nights prior apparently forgotten. He pulled out a few of the drawers built into the bookcases, obviously searching for something.
Mycroft watched him with some consternation. “I say, Sherlock, you do realize that you are ransacking my own library? If you are looking for something in particular, you need only ask.”
“Never mind, Mycroft. I have it here.” Holmes had pulled out a rolled sheet of paper which, when opened, proved to be a map of greater London. He looked at it for a moment and then laughed. “Really, Lestrade, it is one of the elementary principles of practical reasoning that when the impossible has been eliminated, the residuum, however improbable, must contain the truth. It is certain that the train left Ponders End intact, is it not?” He pointed to a spot on the map. “It is certain that the final cars did not reach Tottenham Hale, here,” said he, pointing again. “It is the highest degree unlikely, but still possible, that it may have taken one of the available side rails, though an external source of power must have been supplied. It is obviously impossible for a train to run where there are no rails, and therefore, we may reduce our improbables to any open lines that cross it.”
Mycroft was shaking his head. “We don’t need you to tell us that, Sherlock. There are no open lines. They have all been closed since the printing of that particular map.”
Holmes looked taken aback at this piece of information. He spent a few minutes filling his pipe with shag tobacco and puffed at it silently while contemplating the paper before him. Finally he pulled the pipe out from between his lips and smiled. “But there are closed lines, are there not?” he asked calmly.
“What good are closed lines?” spluttered Lestrade. “Their rails have been pulled up. The train did not fly over them!”
But Mycroft seemed to follow his brother’s train of reasoning. “Are you suggesting that some gang of criminals employed platelayers to replace the rails that previously connected a side-line, making it once more temporarily operational?”
Holmes nodded. “I confess that I am unable to suggest any other solution. I should certainly advise you to direct all your energies towards looking for such a closed line. The criminals would have removed the new rails afterwards, of course, in order to cover their tracks. But that particular stratagem would have afforded them the time required to set a pump-trolley upon the tracks.[75] They could then use it to push the cars onto the side rail, unload the carriage of its contents, and then dispose of the cars themselves. A dredging of the Tottenham Marshes might possibly bring some suggestive facts to light.”
§
Once Lestrade and Mycroft had departed Holmes appeared to be in a better mood, despite these interruptions which had no relevance to the primary matter at hand. Perhaps the intellectual besting of his brother, often acknowledged to be his superior in intellect, sufficed to restore some of his confidence. He rose, and taking up his Stradivarius from the corner, he began to play a Dvořák Humoresque. I have always enjoyed Holmes’ performances when they resulted in an actual tune, and was mildly dismayed when yet another visitor appeared and interrupted him.
This proved to be Inspector Alec MacDonald, who was one of Holmes’ favorites upon the force. In the years since we first met, his deep set, lustrous eyes still conveyed a keen intelligence from beneath the bushy eyebrows of his great cranium. Only his brown hair, now dusty with grey, and his tall, bony figure had changed, the latter now conveying a sad sense of declining physical strength.
“Mr. Mac!” cried Holmes, as he steered the man to one of the armchairs. “What can a poor retired consulting detective do for you?” he asked as he sank into the settee opposite.
The silent, precise man hesitated a moment before speaking with his hard Aberdonian accent. “Well, it seems to be but a trifle, Mr. Holmes, but there was something about it that suggested I should notify you, given that you are back in town.”
“Very good, pray proceed.”
“This morning, Scotland Yard was called by the hospital at Blackheath to come take a look at a man who had been burned in a house fire down near Charlton. When we arrived, we found a horrific scene. The poor chap was more mummy than man, with nary an inch of his skin that had not been torched and subsequently wrapped by the doctors. The only parts of him that were unharmed were his hands.”
“Both of them?” asked Holmes.
“Yes.”
“That is most remarkable,” said Holmes, eagerly leaning forward in his seat.
“Was it?” remarked the inspector. “I thought it an interesting coincidence, nothing more.”
“I assure you, Mr. Mac, that it is not an easy task to burn every part of your body while sparing your hands,” said Holmes, gravely.
I shook my head sadly. “Burns of that size are likely to prove fatal.”
The inspector nodded. “Yes, that is just what they told me, Doctor. The man had, of course, been given strong doses of morphine in an attempt to make him comfortable, but he refused to rest. Instead, he continued to murmur one word over and over again. His lips were burned to such a degree that the word was hardly intelligible, but at last they realized what exactly he was saying. That’s when they called the C.I.D.”
“And what was the word?” asked Holmes, eagerly leaning forward in his seat.
Inspector MacDonald looked peculiarly at him for a moment, and his voice dropped to almost a murmur as he answered. “It was ‘Holmes!’”
“Ah,” said Holmes, settling back, his brows furled as he considered this new piece of information. He finally smiled at the inspector. “So, Mr. Mac, are you here to ask me my whereabouts during the time of the crime? For I presume that the house fire was not natural?”
“Yes, I was just getting to that, Mr. Holmes. But I can assure you that you are not considered a suspect. There is not a man of the Yard who would suppose you to be responsible.”
Holmes smiled innocently. “So what was unusual about the fire?”
“The speed.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
Before the inspector could answer, Holmes provided the explanation. “The brave men of the city fire brigades are no fools, Watson. They do not rush blindly into burning buildings without a reasonable expectation that they will be able to make their way out again. In order to make such a calculation, they have turned to science. There are formulas, not precise ones, mind you, but fair estimates of how long a certain type of building is expected to burn, based on various factors, such as the number of floors, approximate age, predominant materials, etcetera.” He turned back to the inspector. “So how discrepant was the estimate?”
Inspector MacDonald shook his head. “Very much so, Mr. Holmes. The fire superintendent tells me that a fire at Hornfair House ought to have lasted at least an hour, and given the amount of brick, a sizable proportion should have still been left standing when all was said and done. He cannot explain why the entire house burned to minuscule ashes within fifteen minutes of the first sounds and notice of smoke.”
“Fascinating,” said Holmes. “So who is the burned man?”
“That’s an excellent question, Mr. Holmes, and one we hoped you would be able to answer, since it appears that he may be an acquaintance of yours.”
Inspector MacDonald shrugged. “The owner is Sir Wilson Maryon, but he hasn’t been near it in years. His estate agents lease it, and about two months ago it was taken by a Mr. John David Moore. However, by all accounts, Mr. Moore was a man of at least seventy years, stooped and hard-of-hearing. He claimed to be a retired botanist. The estate is quite private, and the neighbors are uncertain if he was home at the time of the fire. And even if he was, as I said, the fire burned so hot that we may not even be able to find any remains.”
“But how do you know that the scorched man is not Mr. Moore?” I asked.
“By his hands, Watson,” said Holmes.
“Exactly, Mr. Holmes,” said Inspector MacDonald, smiling. “The burned man has no liver spots or other signs that they belong to a man of more than forty years of age. Though there are some unusual features that might help you identify him, Mr. Holmes.”
“Such as?”
“There are innumerable old scars on them, though I am unable to precisely determine what profession would have caused them.”
“Excellent, Mr. Mac,” cried Holmes. “I have often said that the hands are the key to a man.[76] It is most fortunate that they were preserved in this situation. It is of no matter that you could not identify them, Mr. Mac. I would be happy to go down to Charlton and investigate.”
“You mean ‘we,’ Holmes,” said I.
“No, Watson, I am afraid that would be impossible. For now, we must hope that our adversary believes that I am still incapacitated. I will utilize one of the disguises that you did not record in your adventures, perhaps that of a Southwark costermonger looking for new wares.[77] Mortlock will not be expecting that.”
“Do you think this course of action wise in your current condition? You only recently received several serious blows to the head. What if you are set upon again?”