“You had no way of knowing, Mr. Holmes. Even now I am trying to rescue Wilfred from a life of dissolution.” Lombard stopped pacing and braced himself against the mantelpiece, staring down at the fire. “He was sent down from Oxford for drunkenness. I thought if I myself prepared him to take over the business, gave him a goal to work toward, taught him to live within his income . . .” He shook his head. “It made no difference.”
“Are there just the two of you in the business?”
“Yes, I let a good assistant go to make room for Wilfred. But he’s out there now somewhere, carousing with the lowlife whose company he prefers. He spends most of his time in Limehouse, with the sailors and the smugglers and the thieves and the ladies of the night. I sometimes fear for his life.”
As well he might. Holmes asked, “Do you know the names of any of the places he frequents?”
“I know one—The Glorious Lotus. Are you going to find him, Mr. Holmes?”
“I am going to look for him, Mr. Lombard. But do not raise your hopes too high. Limehouse guards its secrets well.” And with that, we left him.
Limehouse could be a model for Hell. The skies glow red with reflected light from the factory furnaces that blast forth day and night. The buildings are so covered with grime that merely to brush up against a wall is sufficient to ruin a greatcoat. The stench from the paper mills is overpowering. The basin that the area surrounds is filled with floating things that one would not care to examine too closely. And the denizens of that dreadful place openly inspect every stranger with an eye to doing him harm; I think only the fact that there were two of us kept us from being attacked and robbed in the streets.
Even the police constables walked the streets in pairs in that part of London; two were even then strolling in our direction. “Ah, Watson,” said Holmes, “here come two men who undoubtedly know the area well.” He approached them and asked not about The Glorious Lotus but the Limehouse Charitable Home for Boys.
Both constables shook their heads. “There’s no such place, sir,” one of them said. “There’s St. Anne’s, but no orphanage. No orphanage in Limehouse at all.”
“No institution of any kind headed by the Reverend Mr. Burns . . . who succeeded the Reverend Mr. Dawson as director?”
“Not in this parish. This lot here ain’t much for church. Someone’s been telling you a story, sir.”
“As I suspected,” Holmes said. “Thank you, Constable, you have been most helpful.”
The two policemen went on their way. “I thought you were going to ask about The Glorious Lotus,” I said.
“The Glorious Lotus? Oh, that’s down the street to our left.”
It was a dive of the most disreputable sort; there was certainly nothing either glorious or flowerlike about it. Young Wilfred Lombard was not to be found, however. A few well-placed inquiries and a half-crown piece elicited the information that he had recently departed for Mr. Chu’s.
I trailed Holmes back out to the street and asked, “Where and what is Mr. Chu’s?”
“Two streets away. It is an opium den, Watson.”
I stopped; he knew the place. “Holmes,” I said.
“Hurry, Watson! There may still be time to stop him!”
There was nothing to do but follow, although I was filled with dread at the thought of Holmes in one of those places even on a rescue mission. We reached a blackened building indistinguishable from its neighbors.
Holmes stopped at the door. “They know me as Lewis here,” he said. “Watson, I must ask you to say nothing once we go inside. Do not protest against anything you see or hear. And keep your face impassive at all times—you must not express disapproval in any way whatsoever.”
I understood. We went in; I had trouble seeing at first, the place was kept so dark. But Holmes didn’t hesitate; he made his way straight to a mountainous Chinaman reclining on some sort of divan and addressed him courteously as Mr. Chu.
The Chinaman took his time answering, and then said, “Mr. Lewis. It has been a long time since you last visited Chu’s house.”
“Too long, Mr. Chu. But as you see, I have brought a friend with me this evening. We would like a private alcove, if one is available.”
“One is available.” Money changed hands. From a lacquered storage chest, Mr. Chu produced two opium pipes and handed them to us; I kept a blank face as I accepted the noxious object. The pipe was made of black horn and had a sort of funnel cup resting on the top about two-thirds of the way between the mouthpiece and the other end.
“There were to be three in our party,” Holmes was saying, “but the third was not at The Glorious Lotus where we were to meet. If he comes in, Mr. Chu, would you be so good as to direct him to the private alcove?”
“What does he look like?”
“About twenty-two or -three, light brown hair. He has dark shadows under his eyes.”
The Chinaman made a noise I think was laughter. “Your young friend could not wait,” he said. “You may find him by the far wall.”
My eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting by then, and I could see the room was filled with bunk beds three tiers high. Almost every bunk was occupied; as we moved among them I could not help but stare at those empty faces, the slack mouths, the unseeing eyes. The sluggishness of motion among those who could still move at all. What demons drive men that make them choose oblivion over life? I did not then nor do I now understand that impetus to slow but inevitable self-destruction.
Young Wilfred Lombard had not yet been in that den of corruption sufficiently long to have succumbed to a drug stupor; he recognized us immediately. Holmes stopped him from speaking, saying he was known by a different name here, and invited Wilfred to join us in our private alcove. I was sickened by the look of smug gratification that appeared on the young man’s face; our presence in that vile place excused his own weakness.
Holmes led us to an adjoining room of small partitioned-off spaces with only curtains covering the entries; nevertheless our alcove would afford some modicum of privacy. The sole source of illumination was a lantern suspended from the wall.
The first thing Holmes did was take away Wilfred’s opium pipe. “No more for you, my lad,” he said in a low voice. “I want you lucid and thinking.”
Wilfred protested, to no avail. I took all three pipes and looked for a place to put them. There were no bunks in the alcove, only filthy mats on the floor. I tossed the pipes into a corner.
Holmes and Wilfred sat on the mats, but I remained standing. “And now, young man,” Holmes said, “we’ll have the truth, and we’ll have all of it. Who were the men who robbed your father this afternoon?”
Wilfred looked as surprised as I felt. “How would I know who they were, Mr. Holmes? I was not even there when the robbery took place!”
“Come, come—let’s have an end to prevaricating. The thieves knew to bring a tool to force the lock. They knew the display cases contained only paste reproductions and passed them by. They even knew your father wore the key to the safe on a chain around his neck—under his shirt, Wilfred, where it could not be seen. How did they know these matters? Only you or your father could have told them, and I hope you are not so foolish as to claim your father arranged to have himself robbed. You and only you gave the thieves the details they needed. Come, Wilfred, the game is up. Salvage what you can. We may still recover what your father lost.”
Wilfred began to weep. “They were supposed to take only Lady Blanchard’s necklace,” he said softly between sobs. “They were not supposed to rob my father of everything! He gave me his word my father would not be hurt.”
“Or Lord Edgar?” I asked.
“No one was to be hurt! He gave me his word!”
Holmes’s face was in shadow but the contempt in his voice was unmistakable. “You are not only a dishonest man and a faithless son, you are also naı ¨ve beyond belief. You put your trust in thieves? Again, what are their names?”
“I know only one of them. His name is Hu Wei-Yung.” Wilfre
d took a moment to catch his breath. “I told him of Lord Edgar’s appointment at four o’clock to claim the necklace. And I delayed delivering a pearl stickpin to Mayfair in order to be away when he arrived—he said nothing of bringing two others with him. Hu Wei-Yung was to break in, take the necklace, and leave. That’s all. Instead, he beat my father and took everything he owned.” His voice was tinged with self-pity. “He betrayed me. When he stole my father’s livelihood, he stole mine as well.”
I turned my back in disgust.
Holmes asked what their plans were for after the robbery. “We were to meet at The Glorious Lotus at eight o’clock,” Wilfred replied. “But he failed to keep the appointment.”
“And that surprised you? Where can we find this Hu Wei-Yung?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Holmes! I never knew where he lived—I’ve seen him only in public places.”
The lantern flickered. “Then we need spend no more time here. Come along—we’re taking you home to your father.”
“Mr. Holmes, must you tell him my part in this?”
“Not if you tell him yourself. Which is better, that he learn the truth from you or from a consulting detective he met only this afternoon? Be a man, Wilfred! Face up to what you have done. Throw yourself on your father’s mercy and beg his forgiveness.” Wilfred began to moan. Holmes stood up and said to me in a low voice, “Watson, take close hold of his arm. I don’t trust this young scoundrel not to run away.”
I took Wilfred’s arm and pulled him to his feet. “It’s Christmas time, Wilfred,” I said. “You can exploit your father’s charitable instincts if you’re clever enough.”
“Tsk, Watson.” But Holmes smiled as he said it. We left our alcove and made our way through the main room with the triple bunks. Holmes paused before the mountainous Chinaman.
“Mr. Chu,” he said, “I fear I neglected to pay you when we first came in.”
Money changed hands again; Mr. Chu accepted the folded bills and waited. “I am desirous of making the acquaintance of one Hu Wei-Yung,” Holmes added.
Mr. Chu’s eyes flickered downward as he thumbed through the bills Holmes had handed him. “Do you make donations to the Salvation Army, Mr. Lewis? There is an abandoned mission house on Northey Street that may be of interest to you.”
“Ah. Truly abandoned?”
“Tonight, yes. Tomorrow night . . . perhaps not.”
“I see. Then I bid you good night, Mr. Chu.”
The Chinaman nodded expressionlessly. “Until we meet again, Mr. . . . Lewis,” he said.
It was close to two AM when we returned to Baker Street after delivering Wilfred Lombard to his father, so I slept later than usual on the morning of Christmas Eve. Holmes was up and dressed when Mrs. Hudson brought our breakfast; I put on a dressing gown and joined him. My companion was pensive that morning and not inclined to talk, a condition that suited me admirably as I was slow in coming fully awake.
After we’d finished eating, I dressed and returned to our sitting room to find Holmes looking down through the window at the street. “I do believe I’m looking at the carriage in which we returned Lord Edgar to his home yesterday. Watson, did you not say he must remain quiet? Wait—it is Lady Blanchard who alights. Something is amiss.”
He was standing by the door and holding it open before she reached the top of the stairs. “Mr. Holmes!” she exclaimed. “I desperately need your help!”
I’ve heard those words uttered a hundred times in those rooms, but they still have the power to strike a chill in my heart. Holmes insisted that Lady Blanchard be seated and take time to compose herself.
She sat down, but she couldn’t wait. “Edgar has been kidnapped! He was taken even as I watched! I could not prevent them!”
“Oh, dear lady!” I exclaimed. “Are you hurt?”
“No, Dr. Watson. They simply brushed me aside as they would an insect.”
Holmes asked, “They broke into your house?”
“No, they took him on the street. They threw him into the back of a wagon and drove away.”
“Lord Edgar was on the street?” I said. “He should not have left his bed!”
“I’m aware of that, Dr. Watson. Edgar woke up this morning feeling much better except for a severe headache. He dressed and claimed a walk in the brisk December air would clear his head. I pleaded with him not to go, but he would not listen. I insisted on going with him, of course, but we’d no sooner stepped out of the house than those men set upon us.”
“Holmes,” I said, “a man suffering concussion who is handled roughly—”
“I know, Watson,” he said shortly. “Lady Blanchard, please describe the men who took your husband.”
“They looked exactly like the three men who robbed the silversmith in Chancery Lane. Dressed in black, scarves covering their faces. And this time I did look at their eyes, Mr. Holmes. They were Oriental eyes.”
“The same three that robbed Lombard?” I asked.
“Assuredly,” Holmes agreed. “Lord Edgar said one of the men remembered him from the Chancery Lane job. And Wilfred no doubt had told them his name—discretion is not Wilfred’s strong point.”
Lady Blanchard looked puzzled. “Wilfred?”
“Wilfred is Mr. Lombard’s son, who, alas, instigated the robbery. Tell me, how long ago was Lord Edgar taken?”
“Ah, it must be two hours now. I have been with the police—but I fear they have no idea of how to find Edgar. So I came to you.”
“So you have not been home since he was kidnapped? Lady Blanchard, it is quite possible your husband was taken for ransom and a message naming the amount will be sent to you. You must return to King’s Cross immediately. Do you have any cash in the house?”
Her eyes were wide. “I have money for household expenses.”
“That won’t be sufficient. Where does Lord Edgar keep an account?”
“At the Bank of England.”
“Watson, your coat! We must make haste to Threadneedle Street.”
Holmes sought out a bank official for whom he had once done a service, and Lady Blanchard’s needs were attended to swiftly and efficiently. I almost fell as we were coming out of the bank; last night’s drizzle of rain had frozen over and the walks were icy. Holmes saw Lady Blanchard into her carriage and instructed the coachman not to stop for anything until they had reached King’s Cross.
I watched the carriage until it was out of sight. “Do you believe it was indeed for ransom that Lord Edgar was taken?”
“Let us pray that is the case,” Holmes answered. “But if Lord Edgar realized that the thief remembered him, could the thief not realize that Lord Edgar recognized him as well?”
“Then—”
“Then Lord Edgar may be in the greatest peril of his life.”
Theft, kidnapping, a son’s betrayal, and now possibly murder—what a hideous way to observe the season. The normalcy of the scene around us was a heartless mockery of those unhappy events. The sun glittered brightly on the ice, holly wreaths tied up with bright ribbon adorned the lamp poles and many of the business establishments within sight, strangers wished one another happy Christmas as they passed, the sound of caroling drifted from down the street.
Holmes and I had the thought at the same time. I said, “Could it possibly be . . . ?”
“Let us find out.”
We made our way as quickly as we could along the icy walk to the next street corner—and there stood our seven carolers from the fictional Limehouse Charitable Home for Boys. They were attracting the same kind of attention as yesterday in Berkeley Square; a group of passersby had stopped to listen to these young Chinese boys singing of Christmas. Even a police constable stopped, enjoying the scene.
And then something strange happened. The carolers broke off their rendering of “The Holly and the Ivy”—stopping in mid-phrase, in fact—and began to sing, loudly, “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.”
“Constable!” Holmes shouted above the singing. “Blow your whistle! Summon help
! A robbery is taking place even now!” To me he added, “The carolers, Watson! They act as lookout for the robbers—whom they have just warned of a police constable on the scene!”
The carolers scattered at the sound of the police whistle, each running off in a different direction; Holmes took off after the nearest one. He looked like a great black scarecrow slipping and sliding across the ice, his long arms flailing to help keep his balance. But the boy he was pursuing fared no better, and Holmes was able to nab his prey, whom he held in a tight grip. It was not the same boy who had solicited us for donations; this boy was younger.
When I caught up with them, Holmes was saying, “Answer me! Where is the robbery taking place?”
The boy answered in a high sing-song using words I did not know.
“And don’t pretend you can’t speak English! You have a choice, you young rascal. You can tell me which establishment is being robbed, or you can live your life in an English prison. Well? Which shall it be?”
The boy was frightened. He swallowed hard and said, “Telegraph office.”
The telegraph office—which would have more money in the till than usual because of all the Christmas greetings being sent this day. Holmes released the boy and gave him not so much as a glance as he ran away. “Constable!” Holmes called. “The telegraph office!”
“Oi!” someone cried out. “It’s the telegraph office!”
Two other constables had appeared in answer to the summons. We made a strange procession as we slid our way to the building under siege—the three constables in the lead, followed by Holmes and myself, and we in turn followed by a number of onlookers who’d joined the chase, all of us doing a bizarre little dance to keep ourselves upright on the icy walk.
The constables rushed into the telegraph office and a great uproar broke out. Two of the black-garbed thieves erupted through the door; the crowd immediately captured one of them, and the constables came out dragging another. But the third man was getting away.
“After him!” Holmes cried and set off in pursuit.
More Holmes for the Holidays Page 7