“Fortunately,” continued Mycroft, “following the destruction of Moriarty’s gang, Colonel Moran had to avail himself of his few remaining resources and assigned our man as one of two who were to watch for an opportunity to whisk away your wife.”
“So with all of these precautions something obviously went wrong,” I said bitterly. I wanted nothing more than to know what all this had to do with the assault upon my wife and neighbour but I knew Mycroft Holmes would not be rushed.
“Ah, the best laid plans, Doctor, the best laid plans.....,” his voice drifted off. The room became silent and remained so for several seconds before he began speaking again.
“As you know Doctor, Sherlock in a precipitate and perhaps unwise move took your wife off to a hotel in a bid to ensure her safety.”
Holmes snorted.
“Unfortunately,” continued Mycroft taking no notice of his younger brother’s interruption “due to unforeseen circumstances it was not possible for my brother to give his full attention to Mrs. Watson’s protection. What you could not know is that the individual whom he chose to act as her guardian in his stead was our cousin Dr. Hugh Verner. Hugh is the one person, aside from the two of us whom Sherlock trusts. Obviously he could not enlist your aid for reasons I believe he has already made clear to you. Hugh posed as her brother during their short stay in the hotel.
“It was only by coincidence that the very night that Hugh was in attendance he was called out upon a medical emergency.”
“What was the nature of this emergency?” I asked.
“It seems that the captain of a tea clipper had become seriously ill and medical attention was needed.”
“Why not simply take him to the hospital which if I recall correctly, stands outside of the entrance to the Docks?” I asked.
“Hugh is well known down at the docks and is familiar with, and trusted by the sailors. Hugh was contacted at Claridge’s Hotel apparently through the indiscretions of his wife and made aware of the captain’s condition. Mrs. Watson being the kind-hearted soul that she is offered her services in whatever nursing capacity was needed.”
“Mary never mentioned anything to me about such a thing,” I remarked.
“At the time it probably seemed a trivial affair and I am sure that you had other, more interesting matters to discuss,” replied Sherlock.
“They took a cab down to the docks,” continued Mycroft, again undeterred by the interruption, “which even at that time of day was teeming with people, and spent several hours trying to do what they could for the unfortunate captain with what they had. They worked feverishly and it appeared at times that they were winning but in the middle of the night the man died. The crew thanked them for their efforts and soon they were in a hansom on their way back to the hotel exhausted by their efforts. All this we later learned from Dr. Verner and from your wife.”
“Within two to three hours of returning to the hotel,” he continued, “your wife began exhibiting many of the same symptoms as had the ship’s captain.”
“What were these symptoms, Mycroft?” I asked.
“Primarily headaches, nausea, vomiting and aching joints,” Mycroft replied.
“Symptoms which are all characteristic of influenza Mycroft, and while serious enough it is hardly the type of affliction to warrant such mysterious goings on.”
“I am sure that most of the practitioners in Harley Street would agree with you Doctor. However coupled with the symptoms shown by the captain, the implications were much more ominous.”
An unnamed fear came over me. “And how did these symptoms manifest themselves Mycroft?” I asked quietly.
He pulled a small notebook from his vest pocket and began reciting from it. “According to the ship’s cook, who attended the man until Doctor Verner and Mrs. Watson arrived, early during his illness the captain showed many of the same symptoms as had your wife. Then after about seventy two hours the lymph nodes in his groin area began to swell, following which he began to experience tremendous pain. Near the end, his skin turned a dark purple.” Abruptly he closed the notebook and put it back into his pocket. He poured himself another drink of whisky, he didn’t wait for soda.
I got up from my chair and walked to the window. On the pavement below a small group of youngsters were engaged in a game of Ugly Bear, an amusement I remembered fondly from my own childhood. The sight of children at play would customarily bring a smile to my face, it now held little interest.
“Hugh was about to begin treatment of her when you snatched her from beneath our noses.”
“You know as well as I do Mycroft that there is no treatment,” I said, my voice little more than a hoarse whisper.
“It is then, what I suspected?” asked Sherlock Holmes.
“Yes Sherlock,” replied Mycroft. “It is the plague.”
I turned to stare out of the window, the rain which had just begun to fall, was beating against the glass like a swarm of angry locusts. The children continued their game with even more fervor. I envied them their carefree lives.
The two brothers continued their discussion. I paid them scant attention. Suddenly I was aware of a silence so profound that I could hear my own heart beating. I turned around; the brothers had sunk into silence.
“Where is Mary?” I asked.
There was a momentary silence before Mycroft spoke up. “I have no idea, Doctor.”
CHAPTER 12
“What did your brother mean by saying that he has no idea where Mary is?” I asked Sherlock Holmes.
We were again sitting in front of the hearth in Baker Street. The atmosphere within the room was almost as oppressive as the fog which had again begun to roll in. Holmes was singularly subdued and my mood had certainly not improved since yesterday when feeling betrayed I had brushed past a startled Mrs. Hudson and last occupied those familiar rooms.
A return to my empty house held little appeal so hailing a passing cab I instructed the driver to take me to the Criterion Bar. I suppose I hoped to find a familiar face, someone that I might talk to but I may as well have been in a bar in Roumania for all of the solace which I found.
Following a light meal and too much drink I decided to make the short walk to my club where I thought to spend the evening playing billiards with my old friend Jimmy Thurston. Finding the place almost deserted (due to a problem with the gas fixtures) the attendant, whom I knew well, took pity on me and let me pass the night in front of the fire with a bottle of fine claret.
After a fitful sleep no doubt brought on by drinking too much alcohol I awoke the next morning feeling quite the worse for wear. Declining the bleary eyed attendant’s offer of a cab, I began the solitary walk back to Baker Street. The exercise and fresh air, I felt, would help clear my senses as well as allow me to reflect on the previous day’s events.
I found the rooms at 221B empty although as if in anticipation of my return a still hot breakfast awaited on the sideboard.
I poured myself a coffee and had just started reading the morning newspaper when I heard the banging of the front door and the soft yet unmistakable steps of Sherlock Holmes upon the stairs.
He removed his hat and frock-coat and he too helped himself to a coffee.
“What did your brother mean by saying he has no idea where Mary is?” I repeated.
He bristled somewhat at my tone. “He means exactly that Watson, he has no idea as to the whereabouts of Mrs. Watson.”
Beneath his cold and forbidding exterior my friend possessed a compassionate nature which few would credit him with and his manner softened immediately. He leaned forward and put his hand on my knee.
“I am very sorry old friend but she seems to have disappeared from the face of the earth.”
“How could Mycroft let this happen?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “It seems that Mycroft’s agent had little choice but to go along with Moran’s plans to abduct your wife. He offered her what protection he could without revealing his own identity. This would allow him to contin
ue his work in the organization. However Moran it seems saw through this masquerade and had the man murdered, he had after all outlived his usefulness and had most certainly become a liability. My brother could or would tell me no more.”
“When did you learn of this?”
“Last night after you left, I accompanied Mycroft back to his digs.”
“So where do we go from here?” I asked, lighting a cigarette.
“Mycroft, through his numerous contacts and influences, has lit a fire under the official forces while I have employed the invaluable services of the ‘Irregulars’.”
The Irregulars were a network of children whom Holmes employed to assist him in his investigations. Many of them had no family and rightfully belonged in an orphanage or a work house. Holmes monthly stipend to them was enough to allow the boys and even a small number of girls to keep body and soul together and also allowed them to attend school, something of which Holmes was particularly proud.
“What can a group of snot nosed children do?” I asked.
“Those children can go anywhere in the city without arousing suspicion. They see everything which is of importance and hear everything else.”
“A child among you taking notes,” I murmured.
“What is that, Watson?” asked Holmes.
“Just something of Robbie Burns’,” I replied.
“The Scot can be very perceptive,” he said. “If there is anything to find, those boys will find it. Meanwhile I shall pursue some leads of my own. These three dead men have a connection to each other and to your wife. If we can find the murderer or murderers of these men we shall then find your wife.”
“It will be too late however,” I said disheartened.
My friend remained silent for several moments. “You mentioned earlier that there was no cure,” he said quietly.
“No, there is no cure The plague generally runs it’s course within seven days and is fatal in about seventy five percent of cases.”
“That makes the situation even more imperative.”
“In what way?” I asked.
“If it becomes known that there has been a case of this most dreaded of afflictions mass panic can be the only result.”
“This is not the seventeenth century Holmes, we have the advantage of modern medical science and while we do not yet know much about the disease there is a growing suspicion in medical circles that it is not easily transmitted from one person to another, although I cannot say why your cousin was not affected,” I replied.
“Perhaps I can shed some light upon the matter. Like many struggling young doctors Hugh spent much time administering to four legged patients. It was noticed that during the Great Plague blacksmiths and stable boys and men of similar disposition were little affected, the thought being that whatever it was that transmitted the disease did not like the smell of horses. However we cannot afford to rely upon spurious medical evidence, the stakes are too dear. We will find your wife Watson, but for now I will concentrate all of my energies on solving these other murders, I can do nothing else. It may be a winding road but a sure one and it will lead to the whereabouts of Mrs. Watson.”
Anyone less familiar with my friend’s singular nature would have been shocked at this seemingly indifferent attitude but I, who was aware of the great heart which much too seldom exerted control over his masterful intellect, knew that he would not rest until Mary was returned to my side.
I awoke the following morning to the happy sound of a throstle singing in the plane tree which stood outside of my window. The great storm which had besieged the capital had gone.
As I entered the sitting room I was surprised to see Holmes still seated at the breakfast table, the morning Times spread out in front of him. I helped myself to some coffee and eggs from upon the sideboard.
“Good morning, Watson. You did not sleep well?” It was more of a statement than a question.
“I don’t think that I slept a wink Holmes.” I sipped on my coffee and smoked a cigarette. Normally I preferred my coffee with cream however this morning I drank it black and strong. Walking over to the bow window I stared out into Baker Street which was even at this early hour very busy.
A small group of children came running and frolicking down the pavement. Their childish japes were briefly directed at a cart horse standing unconcernedly in front of the public house at the corner of George Street, however the driver quickly shooed them away, and laughing, they continued down the street.
“Perhaps Wiggins and his little friends have some news,” I said.
“I have not yet heard from him,” said the detective.
“I believe that situation is about to change.”
At that moment there was a thunderous clamour on the stairs and it seemed as if all the inmates of Bedlam had burst in, followed by a protesting Mrs. Hudson. Upon seeing Holmes the boys quickly settled into silence. Five of them stood fidgeting inside the door while Wiggins their nominal leader advanced.
“Wiggins,” said Holmes admonishing the young lad, “your enthusiasm is admirable however you must knock before entering. I also insist that you show respect for Mrs. Hudson. I don’t think she will again allow you to traipse through her house with muddy shoes.”
Indeed I will not,” said the landlady. “The next time they will meet with my biggest wooden spoon,” she sniffed.
It was an empty threat however as she was quite fond of the little rascals and it was not unusual to find them in her kitchen partaking of a glass of cold milk and a piece of fruit, a jam tart or some other such delectable tidbit.
“I am sorry sir,” grinned Holmes young lieutenant.
“What have you to report, Wiggins?”
“Nobody has seen anything yet, Mr. Holmes. I’ve had all the lads keepin’ their ears to the ground but Mrs. Watson appears to have been swallowed up by the earth.” His thick cockney accent made his reply almost incomprehensible.
“I am disappointed Wiggins, I had expected more from you.” Holmes said brusquely. “You have looked in all of the usual places?”
“Of course sir, I’ve had the boys watching the pubs, hotels, docks, hospitals, and even the doss houses with no success,” Wiggins replied crestfallen. Holmes juvenile army must be much larger than the half dozen which was now standing before us.
“I am sure that you have done your best,” I remarked “however it is a large city and you cannot be everywhere.” The boy’s face brightened instantly.
“You will continue your search Wiggins and keep me apprised of any new developments.”
“Yes sir, me and the lads will keep our eyes peeled,” said Wiggins wiping his nose upon his sleeve.
With that, Holmes tossed a handful of coins upon the table which were quickly snatched up by the children. The half dozen boys made their exit, whooping and crying like a pack of savages.
“A suggestion Wiggins,” Holmes called out as the boys ran down the stairs, “pay special attention to any clubs which may cater to former military men.”
“Do you think that they will find anything,” I asked doubtfully. “They really should not be out on the streets.”
“There is more work to be had from those little beggars than from a whole division of Scotland Yard,” he said. “I know that you are of the opinion that they should be in an orphanage however they have been on the streets for so long no such institution could keep them. They are part of the thousands of unfortunates who do not benefit from the benevolence of London’s many charitable agencies.”
At that moment Billy the page boy came up bearing a telegram.
MORAN HAS NOT BEEN SEEN AT THE BAGATELLE CARD CLUB FOR AT LEAST TWO WEEKS.
GREGSON
“First Lestrade then Bradstreet and now Gregson, soon inspectors from every district in London shall be involved in this case,” I remarked.
My friend looked at me queerly. “What is that you said, Watson?” he asked.
“I said that soon......”
“It was purely a rhetorica
l question, old fellow. As is your wont you may have again hit the nail squarely on the head,” he said excitedly.
“What do you mean, Holmes?”
“You seldom find the solution yourself, Watson, however you have a great gift for guiding others with unerring accuracy.”
“I have done that? How?”
“Tell me this Watson, there have so far been three deaths involved with this case. Where have they been found?”
“If I remember correctly they were found in Greenwich, and Charing Cross, while my unfortunate neighbour was found in St. Pancras. What has that to do with anything?”
“I can not be positive yet Watson. However consider this. Each body has been found in widely diverse areas of the city. Also each body has been located readily by the police when they could just as easily been hidden where they may not have been found. The lame man was found right in the street, where it seems he was killed. The Chinese man was found beside the rails at Charing Cross and your neighbour was found in an abandoned house in a busy street.”
“Yes, I thought it peculiar at the time. The body was found in a ground floor room which had no shutters on the window,” I remarked.
Homes continued.
“Now if Moran is indeed responsible for these three deaths it seems that he is doing a great deal of moving around. Any sensible man would have gone to ground.”
“Any sensible man would not have committed these atrocities,” I added, “unless he is suffering from monomania or some other mental disorder.”
“It seems to me Watson that this man is attempting to draw attention to himself.”
“How so, Holmes?”
“He appears to be employing a very rudimentary yet ingenious code. As you may or may not be aware of Watson, Scotland Yard for administrative purposes has divided the city into twenty two divisions excluding the Thames Division and each of these divisions is identified by a different letter of the alphabet. It is my conjecture that he is attempting to spell out the clue to your wife’s location with these murders.”
The Adventure of the Tired Captain A Sherlock Holmes Case Page 14