Art in the Blood

by Bonnie MacBird

  There was a small Juliet balcony outside and I stepped on to it. The icy air assailed me, so cold it was hard to breathe. ‘Holmes?’ I whispered tentatively. My voice was lost in the wind.

  Maybe he had lied to me and had gone off into the house. But the wheelchair sat behind me in the room. Would he have taken such a foolish risk?

  Then I heard a faint cry. ‘Watson!’

  I stared into the darkness but could see nothing on the ground below. ‘Holmes? Where are you?’

  ‘Right below you!’

  And then I spotted him – several feet down and spread-eagled flat like a spider against the side of the building. His toes were balanced on a drainage pipe and long fingers clenched vines growing up the side of the ancient structure.

  ‘At the risk of stating the obvious, I am a bit stuck,’ he said, smiling crookedly up at me.

  I extended a hand down to him but could not reach. I leaned further out.

  ‘You are not secure, Watson! Knot the blanket around the balcony rail and throw me the end.’

  I did as he said and in minutes he was safe in the room, locking the windows behind him and drawing the heavy drapes over them. He turned to face me, stomping his bare feet and rubbing his hands.

  ‘My God, the fire is dead! Can you get it going, Watson? I can’t bear to call anyone else in here tonight.’

  I stared at him without moving, furious. He had endangered himself, and the entire case, with this ridiculous game. ‘Holmes, you’ve been an idiot,’ I said. ‘Light it yourself.’

  He danced around in pain from the cold. If he had not just jeopardized everything, it might have been funny. But his face was white and his whole body convulsed in shivers from the exposure. He had a manic quality, and concern overrode my anger. I approached and grabbed his hands. A quick examination of his fingers revealed no frostbite. He had been lucky; remarkably so.

  He yanked his hands away and shouted, ‘The fire, Watson, build the fire! Come on!’ He tore a blanket from his bed and wrapped it around himself with a moan. ‘Yes, yes, a mistake! And not my only one.’

  I got the fire sparked, then stepped to one side to let him closer to it. He sat down, and as he pulled on heavy socks, I surreptitiously removed the packet of sedatives from my pocket and slipped some of the powder into the milk I’d brought up from the kitchen.

  ‘Warm milk. Drink this.’

  ‘Tell me what you found,’ he snapped.

  I related it to him as he sat there, shaking. He did not take the drink and I pressed it into his hands.

  ‘You sent me on a fool’s errand. Drink this, now. Come on, Holmes, you’ve risked frostbite and a fall, and for what? Here, I’ll fix the fire.’ I leaned in to poke the kindling.

  ‘Through the windows, I discovered the body is in the larder, the coldest room in the house,’ he recounted. ‘It is well guarded. And the library has been rearranged, as I suspected!’

  ‘I learned nothing in addition to that. Holmes, we have lost this round and we are done for the evening. You are overwrought, and it is time to rest.’

  The kindling ignited the logs and the warmth began to spread through the room. Holmes sat down on the edge of his bed, the picture of dejection. It was rare that he was beaten during a case, and he never took it well.

  I put one more log on the fire so it would last. I felt a growing concern about his judgement and evident mania. Perhaps sleep would change things for the better. I turned to look at him.

  My sleeping draught had evidently taken effect, and he had collapsed backward on to the bed, snoring lightly. Momentarily proud of this minor success, I rolled him to the centre, threw the rest of the covers over him and turned to leave when something caught my eye.

  He’d dumped the drugged milk into a bowl on the nightstand.

  I sighed and retired to the next room. My own rest came slowly. I was deeply troubled by the violent death and by our evident failures here tonight. A woman had been murdered as we visited her home, her child still missing, and an innocent man framed. Our original client was doing God knew what in London with a questionable ally, and we were helpless, right now, to do anything about any of it.

  But even worse, I had begun to doubt our own abilities. Holmes and I had made one mistake after another. Had the few months of my new marriage made such a difference? Had I gone soft? Or had Holmes recently suffered so in gaol that he’d been damaged in some way?

  To quiet my disturbed thoughts, I willed myself to think of my sweet Mary. Sleep came at last. But Lady Pellingham’s horrifying dead face with its bulging eyes haunted my dreams – and would for many nights to come.

  CHAPTER 22

  A Terrible Mistake

  n the circus, there is an expression, ‘the show must go on’. It describes a certain ethos which can no less apply to the upper classes in England, for whom any outward display of a ripple on the water is a mark of weakness.

  And so, the next morning, precisely as if the mistress of the house had not been murdered the night before, a sumptuous breakfast was laid out on the sideboard of the large, chilly morning room. Holmes and I sat at the table, staring out the windows at a vast expanse of snow and black trees in the distance.

  We were alone in the room. ‘Watson,’ Holmes whispered, ‘you must go up to town. Make some excuse. Cable Mycroft that the statue is nearby and will be delivered tomorrow near noon. I shall remain, if allowed, to see what I can discover about the murder. Meanwhile, you must intercept the coroner and get in his good graces.’

  ‘What about our client?’

  ‘We must trust that she will be safe in Vidocq’s hands; Mycroft will see to it. Emil is likely to be with her by now. But until I unravel the situation here and see the Earl behind bars, we risk having the boy wrenched from our protection and legally returned into the jaws of danger. He is especially vulnerable now that Lady Pellingham is dead.’

  ‘Then the Earl is the danger, is that your theory?’

  ‘I do not have enough data to be entirely sure. That is why I must stay.’

  ‘Do you think the murder is connected to the child? Or the art?’

  ‘It remains unclear.’

  ‘Surely the Nike will not be delivered here in the circumstances.’

  ‘It cannot be stopped, I wager,’ said Holmes but before we could continue, a footman entered with coffee and began to refill our cups. Mason, too, entered the room and approached the table.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he began. ‘I beg your pardon for the interruption, and for the news I bring you. In light of the recent tragedy, the earl will be unable to host you further. He begs your forgiveness but asks that you return to London this morning.’

  Holmes’s disappointment was real. ‘Certainly, Mason,’ he replied. ‘I shall write to him soon, but please convey our deepest sympathy and gratitude for his hospitality.’

  Whether what happened next was intentional or an accident I may never know. But at that instant, the footman who had been pouring coffee for Holmes stumbled and splashed a quantity of the boiling liquid onto Holmes’s leg. Unable to control the reaction, he jumped and then immediately realized his unavoidable mistake.

  Mason stared at Holmes in surprise which quickly became a cool fury. ‘Leave us,’ he barked to the footman. He turned to Holmes. ‘I do not know what your game is, sir, but you are an impostor. Were it not for our current tragedy, I would see you gaoled within the hour. But I must attend to other things. You two will be on the next train for London or I will personally see you arrested. Trust me, there will be consequences.’

  Within minutes we were escorted from the estate, loaded into a rough wagon with our jumbled luggage, and after a tumultuous ride during which Holmes and I sat silent, deposited at the railway station in Penwick. Our luggage was dumped on to the roadway next to us, where mine broke open, spilling its contents on to the frozen slush.

  As I began to gather my things, Holmes pulled some clothing from his own and barked, ‘Hurry, Watson. Store our things in the station w
hile I change; we must be off to the gaol! Pomeroy may be able to help us, and we him.’

  At that point he ducked into a lavatory, and emerged minutes later, with Prendergast completely eradicated, and Holmes now in his place. The speed of my friend’s transformation was astonishing. But there was no time to ponder this.

  Rushing down the street, we were unsure of our directions and paused to ask one of the few people about this early.

  It was a young man of our own age heading purposely down the High Street. He was slender, well dressed and copper-haired, with round gold spectacles, an earnest, open face – and carrying a doctor’s bag. I asked him directions to the gaol, and to my surprise, he said he was going there himself. His name, he offered, was Dr Hector Philo, and he was the town doctor.

  ‘Ah, then you are the coroner as well, correct?’ said I.

  ‘Why, yes, I am,’ said the young man. Holmes and I exchanged a worried look. Why was he headed for the gaol and not for the estate? I was bursting with questions but Holmes warned me with a glance. He adopted a pleasant, casual tone.

  ‘We are going to the gaol, also,’ said Holmes. ‘Do you mind if we accompany you?’

  ‘I would be relieved, actually,’ said the young man. ‘It’s never a comfortable visit there.’

  The gaol was some distance from the station and as we made our way through the icy streets, past shuttered stores and markets beginning to open for the day, Holmes continued his conversation with Dr Philo. But the young doctor grew nervous and more reticent. Finally, to redirect the questions from himself, he inquired after ourselves – our names, professions, and from whence we came.

  To my great surprise, Holmes told him. ‘My name is Sherlock Holmes, of London,’ said Holmes pleasantly, ‘I am a consulting detective. Perhaps you have heard of me.’

  At that the young man stopped dead in his tracks.

  ‘My God!’ said Philo in amazement. ‘I have indeed! My wife Annie and I read of your adventure! He turned to shake our hands with enthusiasm. ‘And you must be Dr Watson! Oh, I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you both … your scientific method … the remarkable way you … but … what are you doing here? Now?’

  ‘Later,’ said Holmes. ‘You say you admire my methods?’

  ‘Oh, most definitely. While I’m a country practitioner primarily, I’ve become the de facto coroner in these parts, quite against my preferences, but I tell you, Mr Holmes, there has been many an instance where I wished to discuss my findings surrounding a death with someone of your and Dr Watson’s experience!’

  ‘Have you come across a suspicious death then, Doctor?’ Holmes asked.

  ‘Yes, and more than one. But … ah … we approach the gaol. We cannot speak freely here.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘The magistrate, Boden. He … he is a dangerous man. Judge and jury all in one. He’s set himself up as the final word around here, and woe betide the man who opposes him.’

  ‘But there is due process,’ I exclaimed. ‘How is this possible?’

  Dr Philo looked at us both in a high state of anxiety. ‘We are remote from London. I believe money has changed hands, to overlook … but, I shall give you my theories later.’ He then looked over at the gaol and paused, uncertain.

  ‘What is it, man?’ I asked.

  Philo stood there with his eyes closed. ‘God forgive me,’ he said. ‘I fear that I’m to write the death certificate for some poor soul arrested last night – died, no doubt while imprisoned.’

  It was as though an electric shock passed through Sherlock Holmes. ‘Inside, at once!’ he cried and barged into the gaol. I had no idea of his plan, for even if Boden did not recognize him out of disguise, he surely would recognize me. And perhaps word of our fraudulent identities had already reached the magistrate. Philo and I ran in after Holmes.

  At the desk we learned with relief that Boden had gone home to sleep off the night’s activities. Facing us was a large, ponderous, straw-haired man with a thick, waxed moustache and lumpy face. Bottoms was his name, and had he an ass’s head he would not have appeared more dense.

  He peered at us with suspicious small eyes, but Philo told him that we were consultants of his and had been invited there by Boden. Bottoms blinked a few times considering this, asked us to sign a kind of visitors’ ledger, where Holmes and I supplied pseudonyms, and then ushered the three of us to a dank cell. It was so cold inside this chamber that our breath was visible.

  There, to our horror, we discovered Pomeroy lying on his back on a wooden bench, motionless and deathly still. He was in shirtsleeves despite the freezing temperature. Philo rushed to him and took his signs. ‘Alive,’ he said, ‘but barely. He is in shock.’ Then, to me, ‘Doctor, help me examine his back.’

  Gently we both sat the poor valet up and, despite my wartime experience, even I felt a wave of revulsion.

  The back of Pomeroy’s shirt was black with blood, sliced into ribbons with the shreds embedded into a series of deep gashes. The man had been whipped, severely, with his clothing still on.

  ‘What the devil has happened here? He’s been here less than six hours!’ I said, as I sat and cradled the poor man’s head while Philo prepared an injection of a stimulant. ‘Has he been sentenced and punished all at once, in the night?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Philo. ‘And he is not the first.’

  He plunged the needle into the limp figure. The man remained still as death for several seconds. Then young Pomeroy breathed a deep sigh and was still. ‘We have lost him,’ said Dr Philo. We laid him gently down.

  I had been so preoccupied with our patient that I had not noticed Holmes. He was off to one side, in an agony of remorse. He spoke in a whisper. ‘I am such a fool. A fool!… God forgive me!’

  ‘Holmes, no one could have predicted this!’

  ‘We were warned. It all fits. The two people who conspired to hide Emil are dead. This Boden is part of a larger plan. Come! We must leave at once!’

  Outside, and once again well away from the gaol, we walked quickly, taking a circuitous route through the town, careful that we were not followed. Holmes barraged the doctor with questions, and Philo answered them all.

  ‘Yes,’ said Philo, ‘there were a series of deaths, here in town and in the surrounding area.’

  ‘Have any of the deaths been children?’ Holmes asked.

  Philo started. ‘Why yes! That is, three children have gone missing from the silk mill fifteen miles away. Three bodies were found but I cannot say the cause of death, other than each was beaten and possibly assaulted.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Perhaps nine or ten. No one knows exactly; they were orphans.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Over the last six months. They were, I am sure, illegally conscripted from a local orphanage.’

  ‘How did you come by this information?’

  ‘I have a friend at the orphanage,’ said Philo, ashamed. ‘I regret that I could do so little.’

  ‘And here, in the gaol – how many prisoners have been punished without trial?’

  ‘I cannot say. I am only called as coroner. But four have been killed in a manner similar – well, one hanged himself – since Boden took office here. A number of men in this town live in fear, and it is thought that I am complicit. Which,’ he added sadly, ‘in a sense I have been.’ Here he paused, and swallowed.

  ‘And why is that?’

  Philo looked down in shame. ‘My wife has been threatened, and I, too …’

  ‘Yes, of course. But why have you not cabled London about the deaths? About the children?’

  ‘I have cabled Scotland Yard three times with no response.’

  Holmes took this in. ‘Yes, and you mailed photographs, correct?’

  Philo nodded in shame.

  ‘The situation is dangerous; I understand your position. But you have found your allies and we will not let you down. We must be off. I trust you have urgent business at Clighton. Take care there.’

&n
bsp; Philo was puzzled. ‘What business at Clighton?’

  Holmes looked at him in surprise. ‘You have not been called to the manor?’

  ‘Is someone ill?’

  Holmes paused. ‘Watson, come with me at once. Our cable cannot wait. Then we must locate the body and examine it!’ He spun on his heel and took off back towards the High Street at a run.

  Dr Philo turned to me, imploring. ‘Whose body, Dr Watson? Tell me!’

  ‘Lady Pellingham was murdered last night.’

  ‘My God!’

  ‘The cause of death is unclear, Dr Philo,’ I added, quickly relating the details I had observed regarding the stab wound and the lady’s expression. ‘We were hoping to examine the body more closely but have not been able.’

  ‘If allowed, I will do so,’ said Philo sadly. He handed me his card. ‘Here is the address of my home and surgery. Pray visit me shortly, and we can talk more freely. I have more to tell you, and in fact need your help.’

  I took the card. ‘I will see that Holmes gets this,’ I said and hurried after my friend.

  I had to run to catch up with Holmes, whose long strides had him half a block away. ‘Holmes,’ I cried, running after him.

  He whirled and barked at me, ‘Quiet, man! The entire world need not know we are here.’

  ‘But what next?’ I asked, catching my breath. ‘The place is lawless. We cannot do this alone!’

  ‘I’ll inform Mycroft and Scotland Yard. The post office, quickly! I noticed it on the way here. We have no time to lose. By now Boden will have been alerted to our presence. I will have Mycroft’s men standing by on our signal, tomorrow morning,’ he continued. ‘In the meantime we must attempt to view the body, and lie low as much as possible.’

  As we moved towards the post office into the dull winter sunlight, I caught a glimpse of something which nearly stopped my heart. In front of a tobacconist to my left was a newsboy, hawking the morning London paper.

  There, on the cover, the headline shouted, ‘Blood on Baker Street! Sherlock Holmes and Paramour Feared Dead!’

  I grabbed the paper and read. ‘Missing and feared murdered, the famous detective Sherlock Holmes was apparently living in flagrante with a female companion, believed to be French and of a theatrical profession. Chaos, destruction and a large quantity of blood was found in the detective’s residence on Baker Street, discovered by the local policeman, who was alerted to an incident by a passer-by. Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard …’