3
The Disturbance at the Empire Club
Dr. Watson ran his eye over the back page of the newspaper, folded it and dropped it to the floor.
“So you found the paper rather dull today,” said Holmes.
“Yes, I did,” said Watson. Then he turned. Holmes, sitting at his desk and going through one of his scrapbooks, had his back to him. “How did you know?”
“It usually takes you forty-three minutes to get through it. Today it only took you thirty-six.” Holmes swung around. “If you’re finished with it, may I have it?”
“Of course.” Watson handed him the paper, watched as he opened it to an inside page, picked up his scissors and cut something out. “Did I miss something?”
“You may not have missed it, but apparently it didn’t interest you. However it did interest me.”
Watson got up and went over to the desk where Holmes was pasting the clipping into the scrapbook. It was captioned Disturbance at the Empire Club.
“Yes, I saw that. But when did you see it? You haven’t read the paper yet.”
“No. But you were holding it up when you ate your breakfast and it caught my eye.”
“But why should it interest you? This fellow Lytell was obviously drunk.”
“I doubt it. I’ve met him once or twice, and he didn’t strike me as someone who’d be drunk at four in the afternoon.”
“But he must have been. According to the paper he not only created a disturbance by shouting and threatening several of the members but broke a large vase with his stick. And it wasn’t even his own club.”
“No. It was his father’s, Lord Lowther’s.”
“But drunk or not, don’t you still think his behavior was rather odd?”
“Very odd. That’s why it interests me.”
Watson shook his head. “I’m sorry, Holmes,” he said. “I’m afraid …”
There was a discreet knock.
“Yes?” said Holmes.
“A gentleman to see you, Mr. Holmes,” said the landlady, opening the door.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Would you show him in?”
“Yes, sir.”
She stepped back and an intense and troubled-looking man in his early thirties came in. He was tall and fair and though his tweed suit was rather worn, it was very well cut.
“I hope you’ll forgive me for dropping in this way, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “I’m not sure if you remember me …”
“Of course I do,” said Holmes. “We met at Sanderson’s place, had an interesting discussion about Buxtehude’s cantatas.”
“You have a good memory.”
“One of my many attributes. But, as it happens, Watson and I were just talking about you. My friend, Dr. John Watson. The Honorable Adam Lytell.”
“How do you do, sir?” said Lytell. “But how did you happen to be talking about me?” Then, looking at the crumpled newspaper on the floor, “I see. You read about what happened at my father’s club yesterday.”
“We did.”
“It was unfortunate that a reporter should happen to be passing by at the time. But then you’ve probably guessed why I’m here.”
“Possibly. But I’d rather you told me.”
“Then … it’s to consult you about that—what happened at the club—and what happened afterward.”
“I’ll wait inside, Holmes,” said Watson, rising.
“Please stay, Dr. Watson,” said Lytell. “I know that you have often been involved in Mr. Holmes’ cases. And in this particular one it may be that it is you I should be consulting rather than he.”
Watson glanced at Holmes, then sat down again.
“I must say that the story puzzled me a bit,” said Holmes. “How much of it is true?”
“I suspect most of it.”
“You suspect?”
“Yes. I’m not certain exactly what did happen.”
“Had you been drinking?” asked Watson.
“No, doctor. I’m not a teetotaler—I like a glass of wine occasionally—but I’m not much of a drinking man.”
“Perhaps you had better begin at the beginning,” said Holmes. “When we last met, you had rooms in Bloomsbury.”
“I still have.”
“And where does your father live?”
“At the family estate at Norby Cross.”
“And how good is your relationship with him?”
Lytell smiled grimly. “You do go to the heart of things, don’t you? I would say that our relationship is, to say the least, strained.”
“Will you tell us why?”
“Of course. While I was at Oxford I became interested in politics. Since my views were quite liberal and my father was a Tory, he was not exactly happy about it. But he believed that in time my political ideas would change.”
“And did they?” asked Watson.
“On the contrary. When I came down to London, I decided that liberalism was not enough and I became a member of the Fabian Society. He liked that even less. But the last straw, as far as he was concerned, came a week ago when I became Secretary of the Society.”
“How did he know this?” asked Holmes.
“I wrote and told him. I thought I should. He wrote back and said he must talk to me and suggested that we meet at his club.”
“This was yesterday?”
“Yes. Since I’ve always admired him despite our differences, I had some misgivings about the meeting. I knew what he was going to say and I was uneasy about it. In fact, as I walked to the club, I had a real sense of foreboding.”
“What do you mean?” asked Holmes.
“London suddenly seemed strange, menacing. The sky seemed darker than usual, the streets dirtier and noisier. I don’t know how long it took me to get to the club …”
“Were you late?”
“I’m not sure. I have no clear recollection of anything that happened after that. I believe I asked for my father and was shown into the member’s lounge, and it’s my impression that as soon as he saw me, he began shouting at me and I shouted back. Then people began closing in on me, threatening me, and I have a feeling I fought them off. I have a vague memory of a policeman and a cab driver, and the next thing I knew I was lying on the bed in my rooms.”
“What time was that?” asked Holmes.
“About nine in the evening.”
“You said you had not been drinking. Where did you have lunch?”
“In my rooms. I was working on a pamphlet, and I had something sent in.”
“Well, Watson?” said Holmes. “Any ideas?”
“Did you have any physical symptoms?” asked Watson. “Headache? Aches in your joints? Did you feel very hot?”
“You’re thinking that he might have had a sudden high fever of some sort?” said Holmes.
Watson nodded. “I’ve known men to act as Mr. Lytell did when they were delirious.”
“I had no symptoms that I recall. Just that overwhelming sense of anxiety. And I felt perfectly well when I woke up.”
“And nothing like it has ever happened to you before?”
“No. My health generally is very good.”
“Well, it’s not really my field,” said Watson. “And it might be wise to consult a specialist in nervous disorders …”
“You mean you think I may be losing my mind, going mad?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. Charcot in Paris has written of cases where patients of his developed similar symptoms when they were faced with extremely difficult emotional situations.”
“Well, heaven knows it was a difficult situation,” said Lytell. “But the one I face now is even more difficult.”
“What is that?” asked Holmes.
“My father died last night.”
“Died? How?”
“According to the message I received, from a heart attack. That he did die is bad enough. As I said, I liked and admired him. But if it was a heart attack, was I responsible?”
“You’re thinking about the legal
consequences?” said Holmes slowly. “About an inquest?”
“Legal consequences be damned!” said Lytell heatedly. “He was my father! How do you think I’ll feel if it turns out that it was my fault? That’s why I came here. Would you—the two of you—look into the matter for me?”
Holmes and Watson exchanged glances.
“Do you know who his doctor is?” asked Watson.
“Dr. Harvey Moore.”
“Oh? I know him.” said Watson. “But haven’t you talked to him about it?”
“I tried to—last night when I heard the news—and again this morning. But he refused to see me.”
“Strange,” said Watson. “If you like, I’ll go see him, talk to him.”
“Now?”
“Yes,” said Watson, rising. “You’ll come too, Holmes?”
“Of course.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” said Lytell. “May I come back again late this afternoon, say around five?”
“By all means,” said Watson. “I should have some word for you by then.”
“You know where to find Moore?” asked Holmes when Lytell had gone.
“His consulting rooms are on Harley Street,” said Watson. “But he’s usually at Bart’s in the morning.”
Holmes nodded and, familiar with his friend’s silence and abstraction when he was thinking, Watson got his hat and followed Holmes down the stairs. Walking to the curb, Holmes waved to a hansom that was coming up Baker Street. It was only when it drew up that he saw the well-dressed man with the neatly trimmed beard who had apparently hailed it also.
“I beg your pardon,” said Holmes. “I didn’t realize …”
“It’s quite all right,” said the man. Then, looking at him more closely, “You’re Mr. Sherlock Holmes, are you not?”
“I am.”
“Then by all means take it. I’m certain that your business is more urgent than mine.”
Watson knew that no one had a higher opinion of himself and his affairs than Holmes and so he was not surprised when his companion accepted this without protest.
“You’re very kind,” said Holmes, bowing to the bearded man. “Thank you.”
He told the cabby to take them to Bart’s; he and Watson got into the hansom, and it went rattling off.
They were both familiar with St. Bartholomew—in fact they had first met there—and so they entered the hospital through the side door off Smithfield, climbed the stone staircase and, after Watson had made a few enquiries, paused at the entrance to a ward.
A florid, peppery looking man with grey hair was standing near one of the beds talking to some young doctors. He looked up, waved to Watson and, a moment later, came over to him.
“Haven’t seen you in some time, Watson,” he said. “How are you?”
“Fine, doctor. Do you know my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
“No, I don’t,” said Moore, looking at him with interest. “Heard of you, of course. Here on one of your famous cases?”
“I’m not sure,” said Holmes. “Actually I came here with Watson who wanted to talk to you about one of yours.”
“Oh?” said Moore, turning back to Watson. “Which one was that?”
“Lord Lowther,” said Watson. “I understand he was your patient.”
“Patient and friend,” said Moore. “I knew him, treated him, for more than twenty years. Tragic business, his death.”
“Exactly what was the cause of death?”
“Why, heart attack.”
“Is there any question about that?” asked Holmes.
“None whatsoever,” said Moore emphatically. “I’m a member of his club too, and I was not only there with him when he died, but, as I said, I’ve taken care of him for more than twenty years. In fact, I was the one who first warned him of his condition.”
“I see,” said Holmes. “Exactly what time did he die?”
“A little before nine. Why?”
“His son, Adam, came to see us,” said Watson, “and told us about the incident that had taken place in the afternoon. I assume you know about that.”
“Indeed I do. Disgraceful!”
“Do you think that could have caused the attack?”
“No. That happened about four. Too long an interval.”
“But still you refused to see him, talk to him,” said Holmes.
“Of course I did. Don’t like the fellow, didn’t want to have anything to do with him.”
“Why not?” asked Holmes.
“Because he’s a Fabian!” snapped Moore. “Comes of a fine family, knew he’d inherit the title and pots of money some day and what does he do? Joins up with a group of wild-eyed crackpots who are calling for nationalization, socialism!”
“I gather his father felt the same way about it,” said Holmes.
“Naturally.”
“But you still don’t think that Lytell’s politics—or his behavior—had anything to do with Lord Lowther’s death?”
“I told you I didn’t. Lowther was furious at the way Adam behaved when he came to the club, but basically he liked him—liked his spirit—even though he didn’t like his politics. Of course if it had been Lowther’s other son, it might have been different.”
“His other son?”
“The youngest—a real wrong ’un. Sent down from the university after a shocking scandal and shipped off to America. Terrible blow to Lowther. It was after that that he developed his heart condition. Anything else?”
“I don’t believe so,” said Watson, glancing at Holmes. “Thank you very much.”
“Not at all,” said Moore and nodding to Holmes, he went back into the ward.
“Well, Holmes?” said Watson.
“Interesting. At least now we know why Moore wouldn’t talk to Lytell.”
“And we also know that he wasn’t responsible for his father’s death. But I wonder what made him behave as he did at the club.”
“That’s even more interesting.”
“In what way?”
“I’d rather not say at the moment. What about lunch? I could do with one of Simpson’s chops.”
They walked home after lunch and got to Baker Street at about three-thirty. As they turned into it from Oxford Street, a fire engine went past them, the horses trotting sedately.
“There seems to have been a fire,” said Watson.
“Yes,” said Holmes. “Not a very serious one.”
“You think not?”
“I’m sure of it. The firemen didn’t look as if they had had to exert themselves.”
Accustomed as he was to such observations, Watson looked at Holmes skeptically but did not comment.
Mrs. Hudson was in the hall when they entered the house.
“Where was the fire, Mrs. Hudson?” asked Holmes.
“Oh, in a shop across the street. But it wasn’t a bad one.”
“It wasn’t?” said Holmes with a glance at Watson.
“No, sir. I have a message for you. I was just about to take it upstairs.” And she gave him a card.
Holmes thanked her, looked at the card, turned it over, then handed it to Watson. It was the business card of one Jonathan Walker who was an importer and exporter with a Baker Street address. On the back was written: I would consider it a great favor if you would stop by at my shop. I have something of considerable importance to discuss with you. Very truly yours, Jonathan Walker.
“Will you go?” asked Watson.
“Why not? It’s just across the street.”
“Would you like me to come with you?”
“If it would interest you, of course.”
They crossed Baker Street and walked to the shop, which was near Crawford Street. As they went in, Holmes sniffed, and even Watson, whose senses were not as keen as his friend’s, could detect the smell of smoke. The man in the rear of the shop looked familiar, and as he came toward them Watson recognized him as the well-dressed man with the beard who had so graciously surrendered the hansom to them that morning.
“Mr. Walker?” said Holmes.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes. It was very good of you to come.”
“Not at all. I’ve been interested in your shop since you opened it, and I’m delighted to be able to repay your courtesy of this morning.”
Walker bowed. “A happy accident. This, of course, is Dr. Watson.”
“It is.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, sir. Would you care to look around, Mr. Holmes, or shall I come directly to the reason for my note?”
“Perhaps that would be best,” said Holmes.
“Then let us go into my office. Sebastian,” he said to an effete and rather languid looking young man, “see that we’re not disturbed.”
“Yes, Mr. Walker.”
Holmes sniffed again as they entered the office.
“We saw an engine as we came home. The fire was here?”
“Yes, in my rear store room. I was out to lunch at the time, but fortunately Sebastian noticed it almost at once and there was not too much damage.”
“Was that what you wished to talk to me about?”
“As it happens, I left the note for you on my way to lunch—before the fire. But there is a connection.”
“Perhaps you had better begin at the beginning.”
Pulling out chairs for them, Walker sat down at a large desk and looked gravely at Holmes.
“I doubt if there is anyone who understands the criminal mind better than you do. I am also convinced that you know more about the dark side of London than anyone else. Therefore, I would like to ask you a question. Do you believe it is possible that someone is trying to organize all crime here—in effect, become the ruler of the underworld?”
The Case of the Baker Street Irregular (Andrew Tillet, Sara Wiggins & Inspector Wyatt Book 1) Page 3