The Empty Birdcage

by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

  The carriage ceased bouncing and was now moving smoothly up the drive.

  “What of investments, ma’am?” he asked, attempting to wrest the last bits of information.

  “Truly, could such details be useful in your search for my daughter’s killer?” she wondered.

  “Investments gone sour can sometimes produce hard feelings, Lady Anne. And hard feelings, revenge.”

  “I have but one investment. Set up by the count before we… went our separate ways. In that, at least, he has been faithful, or so my bankers tell me. It is the Via Esmeralda Mining Company. Oh, and it seems I have also invested in the work of a man named Heinrich Schliemann. Although we have not as yet seen a profit, I have been assured that we shall.”

  “What sort of work does Mr. Schliemann do?”

  “I believe he digs for gold, Mr. Holmes.”

  The carriage halted, and as Sherlock pushed open the door, Lady Anne rose to her feet.

  “Might you come in and warm yourself a while before hurrying away?” she said, her expression hopeful.

  “Sadly, we must be off,” Sherlock said.

  As she proceeded towards her door, he noted the burden of death that she carried upon her, one that she would not discard until she herself was beneath the earth.

  You are mine, he vowed to the murderer. I shall find you, and I shall bring you to justice. That is my guarantee.

  23

  LONDON WAS EXPERIENCING THE SORT OF WEATHER that made one question the calendar. Though it said spring, the low, dark clouds, bitter winds and needle-sharp rain bespoke a winter with a veritable stronghold and in no hurry to abandon it. This was particularly onerous, given that Mycroft and Douglas were sitting in the back of a chilly carriage with a newly faulty wheel, courtesy of a hole in the road, and heading to one of Mycroft’s least favorite places in all of London, the St. Katharine Docks.

  Even on milder days, St. Katharine, north of the Thames, was plagued with slick walkways and surrounded by large warehouses that kept the air from circulating until all one could smell was an unholy mixture of coal dust and dead fish. Those everyday unpleasantries became that much worse in foul weather and had recently been compounded by a sinister memory: not six months previous, Sherlock had very nearly forfeited his life upon those selfsame docks, with Mycroft unable to come to his aid. The thought of it still stung.

  On the other hand, just that afternoon had come an intriguing telegram from Sherlock with two names. The first name, Mycroft recognized. Heinrich Schliemann was that archaeologist who had been laboring at a dig in northwest Turkey for more than two years. He based the areas of his search upon clues in Homer’s Iliad—a passion of both arms dealer Vizily Zaharoff and, more recently, Count Wolfgang. Of the other name, a mining company called Via Esmeralda, Mycroft was not aware. And, although intriguing, it would have to wait; for Mycroft and Douglas were to meet a man who claimed to have concrete knowledge of Bingwen Shi’s fate.

  Kang Chen, boatswain on the cargo ship Temptress, had proved helpful to them in the past.

  “How did Sherlock come to hear about Schliemann and the Via Esmeralda?” Douglas asked as he clung onto the door, for the damaged wheel was now causing the carriage to swerve most unmercifully on the road.

  “No notion,” Mycroft replied, as he too held on for dear life. “For he did not say.”

  “And you did not ask, for you did not wish to know.”

  True, Mycroft thought. Why verify what he feared? That, in his quest for particulars, his brother had already broken a commandment or three? The only possible punishment was to abort the case, something that appealed to neither of them, albeit for different reasons.

  As the carriage steadied, Mycroft pulled aside the curtain and glanced out of the window, but he could see nothing except for rain and a veil of his own spent breath. The carriage turned a corner and careened again; the brusque movement extinguished one of the kerosene lamps.

  Carlton the driver opened the trap.

  “My apologies, gentlemen!” he called back before closing it again.

  “And where are they now, Sherlock and Huan?” Douglas inquired as he stood to his feet. Balancing upon the unsteady floor of the carriage, he removed the chimney.

  “They were first heading to Elise Wickham’s funeral, as you know, which I imagine they attended, else he would have sent news to the contrary. From there, they planned a night’s sojourn at an inn on the way to Avoncliff, where Percy Butcher, owner of a stable, was murdered. Then, from Avoncliff to Chichester.”

  “What was in Chichester again?” Douglas asked, rubbing the wick to coax oil to the top, before lighting a match.

  “The ninth victim, the spinster Penny Montgomery,” Mycroft replied.

  “Ah, yes. She succumbed in the morning while gardening, did she not?”

  “She did. I imagine that he and Huan shall pop up at Greville Place sometime in the next few evenings for a good night’s sleep in a proper bed before heading north. And I of course am hoping that Huan will curb some of Sherlock’s worst impulses, while protecting him from those that he cannot prevent.”

  “You are asking much,” Douglas said. “Of Huan, I mean. As for your brother, he will grow up, you know. At which point, you can cease worrying.”

  “Can I,” Mycroft replied, his voice dripping with doubt.

  “I wonder whether your relationship with Sherlock will ever be fully above-board,” Douglas mused.

  “Whatever do you mean, Douglas?”

  “Nothing. It is none of my affair.” Douglas replaced the chimney upon the burner, and then blew out the match.

  In fact, Mycroft knew precisely what he meant. The idea that Elise Wickham’s funeral should require a formal admission had been a ruse, which Mycroft had been obliged to concoct. Huan’s presence was required at Greville Place, for Mycroft—a gweilo, a ghost, a white man—would not be welcomed to gallivant through London’s Asian enclaves. Even Douglas, who was not a gweilo and who was better acquainted with the community’s inner workings, did not have the cachet to extract potentially perilous information. Whereas Huan, with his gracious nature and fast capacity to make friends, to say nothing of his part-Shanghai pedigree, had formed inroads among London’s Chinese community and had gained their trust.

  As community leaders arrived to greet him, Huan had been able to impart to them Mycroft’s queries in a manner that they would find palatable. But the trick had been to keep Sherlock cooling his heels without his taking untoward interest in the proceedings.

  Thankfully, Sherlock knew next to nothing about the protocol of funerals, nor did he care, and therefore he was not likely to probe further.

  In fact, after having been handed the black-ribbon invitation, Sherlock had cast it into his vielle case and would not deign to look at it again. In the same way, he’d not been likely to sit and consume rum with his elder brother and members of the Chinese community, which in turn allowed them and Huan to confer in peace. And though Mycroft was not keen to keep secrets from Sherlock again, neither could he allow his younger brother to poke his aquiline nose into a different mystery altogether.

  For the time being, the division of labor would have to remain.

  “There are the docks!” Douglas announced, glancing outside the carriage window.

  Mycroft looked out. It made no difference that they seemed as forbidding as the gallows and were encircled, like a crown of thorns, by angry brown water. To Douglas, they were as welcoming as an old friend.

  The two alighted and hastened down her slick, pitted walkways. While the churning waves sloshed over their toes, they elbowed past a steady barrage of sailors and travelers moving in the opposite direction, all of them buried inside their coats or wielding umbrellas like swords so as not to give an inch of ground.

  And while Douglas marched steadily onward, head held high and a slight smile upon his face, dodging errant waves and pedestrians with equal aplomb, Mycroft was Scotch-hopping this way and that while trying to protect himself again
st spray, irksome winds, and the menacing prongs of umbrellas.

  “Ah, no. Do not consider halting to point out some ship or other!” he warned Douglas the moment the latter’s pace began to slow. “Though I grant that your affection for this hellish place is at times endearing, this is not one of those times.”

  At long last they reached the Temptress.

  “So!” Douglas said, his gaze softening affectionately. “Have you missed her?”

  “Not for a moment,” Mycroft replied. “But I am nevertheless relieved to see her, for she will at the very least be dry.”

  They climbed onto the bridge. The Chinese guard stationed there waved them through, and they made their sodden way to the rather homely dining hall where they were to meet Kang Chen, the long-time boatswain.

  Chen was a slight man of middle years with a shaved head, a gracious demeanor, and kind eyes. He shuffled his feet along the ground as he went, for his ankles were weak from long-ago chains, and the nerves at the bottoms of his feet damaged by repeated caning. And, though mostly hidden by a jaunty cravat, on his neck he still carried a hideous scar that looked as if someone had attempted to remove his head from his body, which in fact someone had.

  “Mr. Holmes, Mr. Douglas,” he said, hand outstretched. “I am all in sorrow for the dismal weather.”

  “Mr. Chen,” Mycroft said, taking his hand and smiling. “I cannot imagine that it is your doing.”

  Douglas shook Chen’s hand in turn, and the three sat at the end of a long mess table as a galley hand brought them tea. Chen waited until the man was safely back in the kitchen and then said in a quiet voice: “Mr. Holmes. I hear in the wind that you seek information about Bingwen Shi.”

  “Yes. Do you know him?” Mycroft asked.

  “I do not. But a man in my position, traveling back and forth, is privy to much, possibly more than he should be. I make it my business not to betray confidences that float my way, whether intentionally or inadvertently. But in this instance, and because of my great regard for you, I shall tell you what I know, heedless of the possible cost to myself or to my family.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Chen,” Mycroft said with a slight bow. “I do hope the cost to yourself is negligible, and to your family nonexistent. That said, should you lose business because you revealed a secret to a gweilo, I shall endeavor to make it up to you.”

  Chen nodded a little and then said, “We on the docks are more tolerant of white skin than are others of our kind. My merely speaking to you should not raise hackles. That said, it is not my business affairs that are in play, Mr. Holmes, but my life. Regardless, I leave that to the vagaries of fate—”

  “We wish to do nothing that puts your life in jeopardy,” Douglas interrupted.

  Chen regarded him earnestly. “Mr. Douglas? Six months ago, the actions of my brother Ju-long Chen very nearly cost the life of Mr. Holmes’s young brother. I therefore consider it my duty and honor to help. Now, what I can tell you both is this. Your Bingwen Shi was taken. I cannot say by whom, nor where specifically, for I do not know—”

  “Taken. Do you mean kidnapped?” Mycroft asked.

  “That is your word, Mr. Holmes. I prefer mine,” Chen said with a slight nod. “He was transported back to China and there accused of high treason against the government.”

  “High treason?” Mycroft inquired, surprised. “Whatever did he do?”

  “It seems that he attempted to sell arms to Japan.”

  “We were told that he deals in land, not arms,” Douglas said.

  “Bingwen Shi works with Vizily Zaharoff, the arms merchant,” Chen replied. “I have never heard that Zaharoff requires a broker of land. China sees the selling of arms to Japan as a betrayal of the highest order.”

  “But that is what Zaharoff does,” Douglas protested. “He sells to competitors. It is an open secret.”

  “Yes, it is, Mr. Douglas. But you see, Mr. Zaharoff is a necessary evil, much too powerful to be a target, especially if a country chooses to do repeat business with him, which they all do. Bingwen Shi, on the other hand…”

  Chen left the rest unsaid: Shi may have been a sacrificial lamb. It was simply the way of the world.

  “Do you know where this meeting between the Japanese and Shi might have taken place?” Mycroft asked.

  “Forgive me, I do not,” Chen replied.

  “And do you know if the sale of arms to Japan was completed or still in process?”

  “I believe it was completed, Mr. Holmes, but then I heard a rumor that it was not carried out. I do not know why.”

  After a moment’s pause, Douglas volunteered: “I only traveled to Japan once, a long time ago. And I have heard that, since the Meiji Restoration opened up the country to trade, it has undergone quite the rapid modernization, is that so?”

  “It has, Mr. Douglas,” Chen responded. “Under Emperor Meiji, everything has changed. Whereas our poor China was weakened by the Opium Wars. And now both countries squabble over the Ryukyu Islands, which threatens to explode into yet another war. So, for someone born on Chinese soil to sell arms to an enemy is a major offense,” Chen concluded. “And I regret to say that in the past two weeks Bingwen Shi has been tried, found guilty, and sentenced to lingchi.”

  Mycroft was shaken by this news. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Douglas was no less shocked. When neither replied but simply stared, Chen looked at them, puzzled, and then asked: “You have heard of it?”

  “Oh, yes,” Douglas said, quickly reengaging. “The death by a thousand cuts.”

  “And you, Mr. Holmes? You have heard of it too, surely?”

  “I have,” Mycroft answered tentatively. “Though I cannot gauge what of lingchi is a Western cautionary tale and what is truth. All I know for certain is that it is meant to humiliate the victim first in life, then in death, and that the torture is painful and excruciatingly slow.

  “Is it still a thousand cuts?” Douglas asked.

  Chen shrugged. “That will depend on the Empress Dowager, and whomever has her confidence,” he said. “One can only hope, for your Bingwen Shi’s sake, that the first few cuts sever arteries and he will not feel the rest, whether they be ten or ten thousand… The tea is not to your liking?” he added, concerned.

  “It is perfectly adequate,” Mycroft said. “I am afraid that your news was such that I forgot all about it…” he added as he lifted the cup and took a polite sip.

  * * *

  Later, Mycroft and Douglas walked back to the carriage in a daze. The rain had turned to drizzle, coloring the sky and water the same shade of indigo. Mycroft no longer cared where he stepped, for he was wet through and through, and the more he thought about his promise to Ai Lin’s father, the unhappier he became.

  “One bit of good news,” Douglas said, eyeing him worriedly. “Chen seems to think that the lingchi has not yet been carried out.”

  Mycroft looked over at him helplessly. “Douglas, it is useless to put on a good face. He is ‘somewhere in China.’ That makes the proverbial needle in a haystack seem like a game of noughts and crosses.”

  “Perhaps the Queen might intervene?” Douglas suggested.

  “Perhaps,” Mycroft said, unconvinced. “But what does Bingwen Shi have to offer that makes him worth saving? And of course, as barbarous as lingchi is, if Shi was in fact treasonous to his homeland, should he be saved?”

  “Well of course he should. It is a barbaric act!”

  “Technically not barbaric, Douglas, as they are a more ancient civilization than ours—”

  “You know perfectly well what I mean!”

  “You are saying that it is brutal, as opposed to our tried-andtrue method of breaking the neck?”

  “Well, in any event, I appear to be in the unusual position of defending England’s mores and honor against your onslaught,” Douglas said. “And so now I hesitate to ask…”

  “No,” Mycroft replied, feeling a tad exasperated. “My fondness for Ai Lin is beside the point. I am quite in earnest when I
wonder if a man who betrayed his country should be spared. That said, I promised both her and her father that I would try to save him, and so I shall. Indeed, I believe there is only one way to discover what, precisely, occurred and where he might be; and then to attempt a diplomatic solution.”

  “You cannot be thinking what you are thinking,” Douglas muttered.

  “I believe I am. There is one person who knows what Shi may or may not have done in terms of selling arms, and that is Vizily Zaharoff. We must spend the next several days in diligent research. You might begin by sending telegrams to your contacts at various ports with instructions to immediately telegram back such information as they are willing to share about Zaharoff or Bingwen Shi. I shall perform my due diligence at the War Office. It will doubtless cost me time in small talk with Lord Cardwell, but never mind…”

  “Small talk with a former employer who is inordinately fond of you, what a hardship that must be,” Douglas murmured with a smile.

  “Once we have found out all we can,” Mycroft went on, choosing to ignore the jibe, “we must go to Zaharoff, utilizing whatever intellectual arsenal we have at our disposal, for time has never been more of the essence. Are we agreed?”

  “We are,” Douglas said as they boarded the waiting carriage. “Though it does seem a shame. For I have grown inordinately fond of my head.”

  24

  AVONCLIFF WAS A VERDANT, NO DOUBT APPEALING little town, but by the time Sherlock and Huan had traversed the ninety miles southwest from the chalk hills of Buckinghamshire, with an added stop to send a telegram to Mycroft, fog and night had descended and there was nothing left to see. The two travelers were road-weary and sore, with a horse that, however willing, was faring little better than they. And so they sought a room at the first inn they spotted: The Cross Guns on the canal towpath. Their visit to the stables where Percy Butcher had breathed his last would have to wait until morning.

  The inn, built during the reign of Queen Elizabeth, attracted a combination of millworkers, quarrymen, and bargees, if one were to judge by the clientele within. A snug on the western extension of the inn had been added for this hard-drinking, card-playing clientele. From the looks of it, they were very well served indeed. In one corner was a blazing fire that mitigated the pervasive damp of being so nearby the water. It was the sort of place that attracted Sherlock precisely for its loud jocularity and dissolute homeliness—to say nothing of its all-but-unbreathable air, for nearly every hand that gesticulated on a point of contention, or that beckoned for another drink, did so with fingers clutching a clay pipe.