The House Of Smoke

by Sam Christer

  He stopped beside a cast-iron tub that brimmed with foul-smelling green-black water. ‘You won’t be needing that robe, sir.’

  I took it off and handed it over.

  ‘Thank you.’ He extended an arm for me to steady myself as I raised a leg and stepped in.

  ‘Lower yourself slowly now, sir. Enable your flesh to become accustomed to the temperature.’

  The water was surprisingly hot. I inched down until my back rested on the rear of the tub and I managed to stretch.

  Bailey bent low so his head was level with mine. ‘There are two doors, which I don’t believe you can see from your perspective, but they are in the far corner. One leads into the Turkish bath, quite the professor’s favourite. The other is to the laundry, where Jane has taken your clothes.’ His chest filled with pride. ‘I have to say, we have made quite an astonishingly economic use of the heat provided to the bathhouse, for the hot water pipes go into the room next to the mangles and they provide a wonderful way to dry the wet washing. Within the next month or two, we will be fitting cast-iron heating appliances imported from America and then we will be able to heat every room in this fine dwelling.’

  I am unsure whether I fell asleep during that declaration or whether Mr Bailey sensed my lack of interest and simply wandered quietly away. But slept I did. Not for a long time, but sufficiently for the sludgy bathwater to have cooled and for the prescribed time to have expired.

  When I awoke, the great domestic orator ushered me to the plunge pool and after the briefest of teeth-chattering dips, he provided me with thick white towels to dry myself. ‘You will find clean clothes in your room, sir, and Lady Elizabeth awaits you in the drawing room.’

  ‘Lady Elizabeth?’ I used the edge of the towel to wipe water from my face.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He smiled. ‘It seems you have more than one lesson to learn today.’

  15 Days to Execution

  Newgate, 3 January 1900

  Baker and Boardman took great delight in roughly bundling me back to my old cell. In truth, old red-beard and his chum all but dragged me there, as I still had problems with my right knee following the last assault.

  Only when I was settled again did I remember how badly the old part of the gaol stank. My resting place must have been close to a service opening of Newgate’s sewers, and like some incontinent old drunk it was forever leaking the foulest of odours.

  Peculiarly, I felt some satisfaction at being back in my original cell. A little familiarity apparently afforded considerable comfort. The blanket on the bunk had remained ruffled, exactly as I had left it, and I discerned the unique smells of my body as I settled beneath it and hoped to sleep away my pains.

  It seemed that no sooner had sleep come than bright light and the noise of keys in the cell lock woke me. Crisp winter sunshine cast shadows of window bars across the floor, slim soldiers of Dark and Light standing side by side for inspection.

  Boardman was still on duty and yawned out the reason for his appearance. ‘You have a visitor, Lynch. Move your sorry bones.’

  My attention drifted past him to the man a pace behind, a fellow holding a handkerchief to his face to mask the smells.

  Sherlock Holmes.

  ‘Mr Holmes here has come to interrogate you,’ continued Boardman. ‘Ain’t that so, Mr Holmes?’

  The detective stepped forward. ‘The keeper has requested that I ascertain the facts behind this morning’s death and I believe you are integral to that process.’ He faced the gaoler. ‘Is Lynch wearing the same attire and restraints as he was in the refractory cell?’

  ‘He is, sir.’

  ‘Very good.’ He turned to me. ‘Could you please stand up and extend your arms?’

  ‘I need water and food. Before I do anything for anyone, I need to drink and eat.’

  Holmes regarded me for a moment and then nodded. ‘He does indeed require refreshment. Dry skin. Crusted lips. Words ill-formed because of a sticky mouth. This man is dehydrated and needs sustenance, gaoler. Replenish him and I will return.’ Holmes spun on his heels and left.

  Boardman gave me a hateful look and followed, slamming the door in protest.

  An old orderly duly appeared and delivered a bowl of gruel, mug of weak tea and chunks of stale bread. He stayed until I had wolfed it all and then cleared everything.

  A few moments later, Holmes returned. He was alone and had evidently instructed Boardman to wait outside.

  ‘Are you now able to comply with my former request?’

  I stood and stretched out my arms as previously instructed.

  He ran his hands around the manacle cuffs, inspected the chain then the lock and made several tutting noises. He stood back and studied my tunic, plucked at the cloth around my waist, knelt and examined my trousers.

  As he did all this, I wondered whether the famed detective was more valuable to me alive than dead, for at this moment he afforded me a clear opportunity to kill him. Moriarty had once tasked me with this very chore but other events had taken priority. Now all I had to do was loop that chain around his neck and strangle him to death.

  Holmes pulled at my ankle chains and then stood up. He extended his left hand and showed me a spring knife that had been concealed there. ‘You made a wise decision. I would easily have killed you had you tried to overwhelm me.’ He flicked the blade back into its steel body casing. ‘Sit down, please.’

  I lowered myself onto the edge of the bunk and grimaced a little. ‘Before you ask, I was half asleep when I was attacked. I never even saw the face of the dead man, or the fellow with him.’

  ‘I realise all that.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Obviously,’ he said with a hint of irritation. ‘The large bruise on the deceased’s skull, distinctive injuries under his chin, abrasion on the front of his neck and patterned indentations on his skin all validate your claim.’

  ‘In what way?’

  He looked perplexed. ‘I just explained the way. It would appear that like a hopeful fisherman on a darkened day, you cast your manacle chain blindly and got lucky with your catch. The bruises on his forehead show where you snagged him.’ He raised his fists and mimed the actions as he continued. ‘Once you had him, you yanked hard on the chain and reeled him in. Where, from the look of the skin around his neck, you set about choking him.’ His eyes lit up. ‘Somewhat ingeniously I imagine, for you must have been seated or even lying on your back. To escape strangulation, the fellow tried to grab at your face and injure you.’ He pointed down my left cheek. ‘You have fingernail scratches consistent with this on your face.’

  ‘I didn’t kill him …’

  ‘Also blatantly true. But you would have done, had his accomplice not mistakenly driven a makeshift knife into his heart instead of yours.’

  ‘Then I thank him for his mistake and you for your exoneration. Who was he and why did he try to kill me?’

  ‘Dear, oh dear.’ The detective frowned at me disappointedly. ‘Those are entirely the wrong questions to ask. The name of the dead man is of no consequence to you. None whatsoever. Of far more value is the identity of his accomplice, the man who killed him and then vanished into the gaol.’

  I began to see his point. ‘How was it possible that two prisoners could come and go from their cells as they wished?’

  ‘It wasn’t,’ declared Holmes, ‘unless they were assisted by a turnkey, or indeed, if one of them was a turnkey. Either of those options proffers a credible explanation. But of even greater interest is the identification of the person who commissioned them to carry out such an act.’

  ‘I have a long list of enemies, Mr Holmes.’

  ‘Of that I have no doubt.’ He grew thoughtful then added, ‘Tell me, Lynch, if you were to assemble said list in order of those who despise or fear you the most, whose name would be top of it?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Think, man! Who is so impatient to have you buried that he cannot wait but a fortnight for the hangman to do the job for him?’
/>
  My mind spun with possibilities. Relatives or business associates of people I had killed. Perhaps police officers who had hunted me over the years. Rival gangs and criminals. Maybe even Johncock.

  ‘I see you are overwhelmed with candidates, so I will tell you.’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Moriarty.’

  I huffed out a laugh.

  ‘Mark my words. This is the work of the master schemer. James Moriarty wants you dead. I saw it in his eyes in the Old Bailey courtroom when you were convicted. That man would hang you himself if he could.’

  ‘And why would he do that, Mr Holmes?’

  ‘You may spill family secrets. Might endanger him and his cohorts.’

  ‘You are a fantasist, sir.’

  ‘To the contrary. I am a realist. Moriarty’s agents will have told him I have been here. He will suspect an offer has been made to you and he knows that turning Queen’s Evidence would save your neck and endanger his own. The betrayal of a wicked master by a desperate servant is a common enough occurrence to prompt his hand and his darkest acts.’

  ‘You are deluded, Mr Holmes. As brilliant as you are, you are a blind fool when it comes to James Moriarty. He is not my master and I am not his servant. You really should stay clear of those opium dens or at least reduce your cocaine consumption; your judgement is impaired.’

  ‘I suspect you are more proficient at dispensing violence than insults.’ He rapped on the door so he might be released, then added, ‘Madness is coming for you, Lynch. Be certain of that. Make your deal now, before the stink and solitude of this place takes your sanity, before time runs out and, most importantly, before those playing chess with your life become bored and resort to other means of dispelling their worries.’

  Derbyshire, September 1885

  Mr Bailey, the effusive head of Heating, Bathing and Laundry, had been correct. Hanging in my room was a selection of shirts, both with and without collars, some ties and neckcloths, formal and informal trousers, waistcoats, a suit, several hats and caps, a pair of black shoes and sturdy boots. It was more clothing than I had ever owned.

  I chose a pair of brown striped trousers, a red silk waistcoat and white flannel shirt. Dressing was an ordeal. Not because the items didn’t fit. They did. Perfectly. Someone had either guessed my size to the exact proportions or measured me in my sleep. No, the ordeal came because of the pain in my ribs. It seemed to me that the seaweed bath had done precious little to ease the suffering.

  Having struggled into the garments, I stood before a wall mirror and considered myself quite a dandy. But why had I been given these clothes? Why was I here? Why had I been plucked from the spartan rooms of a northern mill and brought to this luxurious country estate?

  What did the professor want of me?

  I was still searching for answers when a well-dressed man appeared in my open doorway and gave a genteel cough to catch my attention. He was tall and gaunt, in his late forties, with greying hair and heavy, curly eyebrows.

  ‘I am Cornwell, sir, the butler. I am here to show you to the drawing room.’

  I smoothed down my new clothes and nervously glanced again in the mirror.

  The reflection of Cornwell appeared over my shoulder, ‘Might I recommend the brown waistcoat instead of the red, sir?’

  ‘You might, but I like this one.’

  ‘It is not a good choice; but as you wish, sir. Are you ready to attend Lady Elizabeth?’

  I took one last look at myself, pulled at the waistcoat for a final time. ‘Yes. I most certainly am.’

  Cornwell’s lips twitched with the suggestion he might once more try to talk me into the brown garment then he turned and walked out.

  I followed his well-polished heels along the now-familiar route into the main body of the house, across polished parquet floors and richly woven carpets and rugs. He opened a door, stepped aside and announced, ‘Master Simeon, my lady.’

  Elizabeth broke from looking out of the window on the far side of a large room and thanked him. She was dressed in a delicate white blouse and simple black skirt. To her left stood a round wooden table, covered in lace and laid for tea. Adjacent was a small piano and a little further away a sloping-topped writing desk.

  Cornwell closed the door and Elizabeth’s smile lit up the room like a thousand gasoliers as she approached me and asked, ‘How are you, Simeon? I heard you endured something of a bruising encounter with Mr Brannigan.’

  ‘You could say that, my lady.’

  She looked amused and motioned for me to take a seat at the table. ‘When we are alone, you should be informal and call me Elizabeth and I shall call you Simeon. I presume you are already on such first-name terms with Sirius and Surrey?’

  I tried not to show my awkwardness as I sat. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then from now on, you will be. You must set the pace or next thing you know they’ll have you doffing your cap to them.’

  ‘I understand. Thank you.’

  ‘You are very welcome.’ She smiled as she settled. ‘This room is, ironically, called a drawing room.’

  ‘Why?

  ‘Why do you think?’

  ‘Because people draw in it?’

  Her eyes laughed at me. ‘No, but I see why you might hazard such a guess.’

  For a moment, my mind was not on her words, her explanations or whatever lessons she had in mind for me. It was on the locks of her hair that glistened like spun gold. It was on the soft creases near her eyes and mouth that underlined how beautiful she was. It was on her voice, how sensual it sounded. ‘Are you listening to me?’

  The question pulled me up and made me redden.

  ‘I was saying,’ she continued, ‘the name is derived from its original title, the withdrawing room. It was a place where people of great wealth could withdraw from company in the house and be alone, be less social. And as my task is not to make you more withdrawn, but to enable you to be more social, it is ironic.’

  ‘And is withdrawn such a bad thing to be?’

  ‘Not by choice. But you must also have the skills to be outgoing, in order to mix with all and sundry.’

  ‘Why?’

  She laughed. ‘Is why your favourite word? The short answer to your question is, because this is what the professor wants. And we all do what the professor wants.’

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘We do,’ she said, sternly. ‘And if you learn nothing else today, learn that we do whatever the professor wants, whenever he wants it done.’ Point made, she relaxed again, ‘Now, tell me about yourself. About your family and upbringing.’

  ‘I would rather not.’

  ‘I heard you were orphaned,’ she persisted, ‘which means you were probably brought up in a workhouse, where education is seldom a priority. Can you read or write?’

  ‘I was taught some reading and writing. Enough to create a hunger for it. And I was around good people who encouraged me to think for myself and talk proper.’

  ‘Talk properly. Not proper.’

  I reddened again and wished the damned lesson were already over.

  ‘So tell me then, what books do you have knowledge of?’

  ‘Many,’ I lied, then checked myself, ‘but none to speak to you about.’ I looked down at my feet to avoid her questioning eyes.

  ‘The professor is very interested in Russian writings on nihilism and American developments in ontology. Do you have any particular views on these kinds of subjects?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t even know what those things are.’

  ‘Ontology is the philosophical study of the nature and relations of being. Nihilism is a belief that all values are baseless.’

  I am sure that by this time my face must have been the colour of a beetroot, for Lady Elizabeth put one of her cool and gentle hands over mine. ‘Don’t be ashamed, my dear. I am not trying to humiliate you. We are finding our starting point, a mark from which we can measure your progress.’

  I believe I struck such a sight that she took
pity, for she stood, straightened her dress and walked closer to me. ‘Just look at you! You are unbearably tense and crumpled. Your head is bent and those big fists of yours are clenched so tightly your knuckles are white.’ She pushed me gently upright and slid my arms down by my side. ‘Relax a little. Allow your mind to open up to new challenges and to grow.’ She used her cool, slender fingers to unclasp my right fist. ‘You can’t fight yourself out of every eventuality in life, Simeon. Sometimes you will have to think your way to victory. Battles are more often won with the mind than the body.’ She worked free the fingers of my left hand and I fought an urge to hold hers, to raise it and kiss it, to place it against my heart so she might feel how insanely it beat for her.

  Contrary to all my previous desires for the lesson to end, I now wished it would never cease, for I was sure I wanted to spend eternity with this beautiful, beguiling woman.

  Two Weeks to Execution

  Newgate, 4 January 1900

  Some force other than the Crown wished me dead. One not limited by the letter of the law or the bureaucracy of having to make an appointment to take my life. This force was powerful enough to bypass the turnkeys of Newgate, unlock my cell and attempt to cheat the hangman of his coin.

  I had three suspects in mind as perpetrators of the attack on my life: Tobias Johncock, James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes.

  Holmes was the cleverest but the least likely. He certainly had the ability to disguise himself, pick locks and then fade into the shadows.

  Johncock was more probable. The assistant keeper’s hatred of me and the savagery of the beating he orchestrated made me believe he bore me a personal grudge. Perhaps I had wronged someone close to him. Or he was in the pay of a rival gang to the Moriarties and would only be financially rewarded if I were killed in prison.

  Then there was James Moriarty. He and his family had the most to lose, should my tongue and hand choose to give testimony against them. I had not lied to Holmes. I was no servant of James nor was he my master. And I was not wrong in stating that the detective’s impeccable powers of deduction were blinkered as far as he was concerned, for it was the reclusive Brogan, not the extrovert James who was the driving power of the family. Brogan, who from the obscurity of Derbyshire and his connections in New York and Boston had shaped a criminal empire that stretched across the world. His brother, brilliant as he was, had merely been foolish enough to draw Holmes’s attention in London and to have personally baited and toyed with him.