Art in the Blood

by Bonnie MacBird

  I read no further but caught up with Holmes outside the post office. ‘Read!’ I gasped. As he did, his pale face grew even whiter.

  ‘Watson, you must return to London at once. Oh, this is a disaster on all fronts! Our client, if she is still alive, is in peril. Who knows if they have located Emil? Oh, I have been an idiot on all counts. An idiot! Go and meet Lestrade. Find out what happened at 221B and find Mademoiselle La Victoire. Get Mycroft’s help if the answers are not clear.’

  ‘But, Holmes! Why not return to London yourself? What can you do here?’

  ‘Watson, I must see about the children at the mill, and discover Lady Pellingham’s murderer. Don’t you see? It is all connected. If Emil is dead it will not matter; but if he is alive, he will not be safe until I unravel the mystery here! I must arrange for the Earl to be taken as promised. Everything points to the manor, don’t you see?’

  ‘It is all too much,’ I argued. ‘We must get help.’

  ‘Watson, there is no choice. I will take care; see that you do the same. Look, the ten sixteen for London has pulled into the station. Run!’

  I handed Holmes Dr Philo’s card. ‘Here is an ally at least. I will send a telegraph in our code, care of him.’

  ‘Good man. I shall wire you at Baker Street. Now go!’

  PART SEVEN

  TANGLED THREADS

  ‘Life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different sides.’

  Lao Tzu

  CHAPTER 23

  Terror Looms

  he train to London was moderately full, and as we steamed southward in the bright morning light, I found a seat by the window in a first-class compartment. There I stared at the passing scenery, ice crystals on the train windows adding another wintry dimension to the vast expanse of white beyond. My mind was in turmoil.

  The plight of our client and her son weighed heavily upon me. Whatever had transpired at 221B had certainly caused injury, though to whom and to what extent remained to be discovered. As I often did on a case, I carried with me my medical bag.

  I would need every ounce of strength and concentration for the task ahead. I once again willed myself to rest, and sleep overtook me. I did not awaken until the train pulled in to Euston.

  While I slept, however, my friend was tirelessly active, yet another instance of his legendary stamina during a case. I shall depart here from my normal narrative to relate his doings over these next hours, exactly as Sherlock Holmes later recounted them to me.

  ‘After seeing you off at the station, Watson, I retrieved my valise and effected a quick change into the guise of a Scottish labourer, red-haired and bearded. If the rumours were correct, and orphans were being conscripted into the Earl’s nearby silk mill, I needed proof. And if those were the children whose bodies were later found and featured in the horrific photographs given to us by Mycroft, then there was no time to be lost.

  ‘The events surrounding this strange and privileged Earl held more than one mystery to be solved. I could not shake off the feeling that Emil’s disappearance, the missing children, the stolen statue, and the two recent murders were all tied together somehow. The secret lay at Clighton, but the two people most likely to shed light on the matter – Lady Pellingham and the go-between Pomeroy – were now dead. Until the Earl could be caught red-handed receiving the Nike, he remained out of reach.

  ‘More evidence, more data was needed. If our suspicions of misconduct were correct, visitors to the mill would be most unwelcome. However, as the humble and hungry “Bill MacPherson”, desperate for work and ready to be exploited, I was readily admitted to make my application. Cap in hand, and suitably cowed, I found myself presently in an anteroom off the foreman’s office awaiting my interview.

  ‘Seated on a wooden bench in this dusty waiting area, I could glimpse part of a more luxurious foreman’s office through one open doorway. A second door looked into a large work area, and I could see a sliver of its vast collection of complex machinery.

  ‘It was a remarkable array of mechanized arms, spinning, separating, winding and weaving the colourful threads to make up the luxurious cloth which – from the sweat of the men and women who tended these machines – would soon grace the figures of the well-to-do worldwide.

  ‘But at what cost to human suffering? I shuddered to view these slaves to machinery rushing to feed, pedal, push, pull, wind, thread, and frankly nurse these infernal devices at a speed that would tire a champion athlete. The work required numbing repetition for which the human brain was never designed.

  ‘I would sooner walk the treadmills in Pentonville Prison, my dear Watson, than toil daily at this mill. The groaning roar of this great room leaked into the small area where I sat, and the rhythm of the machines shook the very floorboards.

  ‘If there were children at work, they were not visible from my position. They would most probably be kept hidden. Children had formerly been worked to exhaustion, housed in chilly garrets, and denied schooling – treated little better than slaves. But that is illegal now. Children of school age can be no more than “half-timers”, receiving schooling for part of the day. But here, far into the countryside, and protected by the cloud of immunity which seemed to surround this Earl, anything might be possible.

  ‘I needed to find the children, if any, and question them. I left my designated bench and made my way on to the main floor. There, I passed unnoticed for several minutes, so engrossed was each man and woman in their time-critical ministrations to these hungry machines.

  ‘Hair was tied back in caps and ribbons, clothing was tight on the arms and body, or wrapped to be so to prevent fatal entanglement, or God forbid, any delay to the production. Despite the frigid outdoor temperature, the heat from the many bodies, and from the whirring and clacking machinery, made the atmosphere at once dank and stuffy.

  ‘As I walked down a central aisle, I observed the ashen faces of these slaves to machinery. One young woman, no more than twenty, ran up and down the row of a complex set-up of skeins unwinding twisted thread onto bobbins, her actions driven by the need to feed successive bobbins rapidly. One misstep and she could easily have become entangled. As I watched, she stumbled and cried out, quickly regaining her balance and running again to the end.

  ‘Near her, an old man, his wrists braced by leather cuffs, fed threads into a whirring loom over and over, his face a mask of pain, his hands no doubt the source.

  ‘The sound was a dull roar, punctuated by the occasional shout from a foreman or team member, and ranging in pitch from a piccolo whirring sound to the deep boom of equipment – the complexity of the tumult enough to trouble every ear.

  ‘It was a kind of mechanical, steam-driven, Sisyphean hell.

  ‘As you know, Watson, I am no enemy of technology and progress, in theory – nor indeed in all of its practice. A telephone, for example, may very well be in our future at Baker Street.

  ‘And in all fairness, not every worker seemed distressed. Some handled their work with a detached ease, apparently suited both physically and mentally to their tasks. As I moved among them, it happened that I grew briefly distracted.

  ‘I had read of the Jacquard loom, of course, but here was a close view of the complex workings of this brilliant invention. Cardboard cards, approximately three by ten inches, with holes punched in them, and sewn by threads into long sequences, were fed into a machine, one by one. Each card then dictated, by means of its code, the placement of threads of specific colours into the warp and woof of the fabric being woven, so as to create patterns of great complexity. A rich paisley of blues and reds was forming before my eyes, directed by the mechanical guiding force of the punched cards.

  ‘I pondered this briefly. If a man could harness this technology for executing a pattern, I thought, what other actions or processes might be enhanced by such a collection of cards with holes in them? Could a complex action or decision be broken down in such a way as to write this code to recreate it? To perhaps solve a puzzle or mathematical challenge th
at required many iterations of minutely changing calculation?

  ‘Certainly in my own work, the most complex situations were often untangled by attention to tiny details and their aggregate meaning. But if not deduction, might not induction be replicated with inorganic materials powered by steam? Perhaps eventually one might even simulate human thought and action.

  ‘Fascinated by these ideas, I nearly missed seeing what I had come for. A child’s cry drew my attention to one corner of the room. There, tucked away from the others, four boys stood in front of rows of large spools, busily engaged in silk throwing. They ran long threads between bobbins to twist them into weavable form. One boy stood back, crying, his finger spurting blood.

  ‘A heavy-set man nearby turned to the child and, grabbing the injured hand, yanked it forward, inspected it and then leaned in to the boy with a sneer. “Trying to get some attention and time away, are we?” he intoned fiercely. “We’ll see about that!”

  ‘With a snarl, the man produced a filthy handkerchief from his pocket. To my disgust, he bound up the cut finger so tightly that the boy cried out again. He flung the child towards the rows of spools, where the boy landed on the floor. “Back to work, you little worm. And no supper for you.”

  ‘Repelled, I made a mental note that once I had taken care of Boden and the Earl, I would make London aware of conditions at this mill immediately.

  ‘“You!” came a high-pitched shout above the clattering roar. “You there, MacPherson!”

  ‘I looked down the long aisle past the clamouring wood and metal beasts. The foreman and the clerk who had asked me to wait were at the far end, pointing at me. I shrugged apologetically, trying to appear lost.

  ‘But the foreman gestured in fury, and from behind him, two large workers charged towards me. It was not the time to negotiate. I turned and ran.

  ‘At the end of the large work chamber were two doors. The first was locked, and as the men drew nearer, I quickly opened the second, which led to a small narrow stairway.

  ‘As I clambered down the steep wooden steps, they creaked under my weight. I came to a door, which was locked from my side. I drew the bolt and dashed inside, knowing I could easily be trapped. But the alternative presented even lower odds.

  ‘It was a kind of storage room. Huge bales of raw silk, bound in linen sacks lined the chill, damp room. I slammed the door behind me, jammed a chair against the door latch and looked about for a means of escape. A filthy pane of glass glowed dimly at the far end and I ran to it, down a narrow aisle between the stacked bales. Dust blew around me as I hurried past.

  ‘My pursuers arrived at the door, and I could hear their struggles and shouts. The chair rattled at the bolt.

  ‘The window was sealed shut. Looking around for something with which to break it open, I was astonished to notice a small boy tucked back into the shadows, sitting on a pile of shabby blankets and watching me with curious interest. He was no more than ten or twelve.

  ‘“Hello,” he said. “Unlock me, please.”

  ‘The door continued to rattle.

  ‘The boy held up a skinny arm. It was handcuffed to a ring on the wall. Next to him, I quickly noticed, were several other rings and a nest of similarly threadbare blankets and some straw. A dirty, torn stuffed animal made out of a sock was just visible under one of the blankets.

  ‘Children were being kept here as slaves, or so it appeared. Watson, you know I am not a sentimental man, but this was unthinkable.

  ‘The door shook again and I could hear the voices recede.

  ‘The child stared up at me. “I can help you,” he said boldly. A long shank of filthy brown hair partially obscured his eyes.

  ‘Whether or not this was true, I would not leave the child like this. I approached him, withdrawing a small lock pick from my usual kit.

  ‘“Are you being punished?” I asked.

  ‘“We sleeps here. But today, yes.”

  ‘“Why?” He did not answer. In seconds I had him free.

  ‘“Can I have that?” he asked, having watched in fascination.

  ‘More voices returned and louder beating at the door. Keys were tried. Idiots.

  ‘“Perhaps. Later. Is there another way out?”

  ‘He surprised me with a grin. “Might be.”

  ‘A splintering crash at the door told me they had brought something to ram through it.

  ‘“This is not the time for bargaining.”

  ‘The boy stayed silent and continued to stare.

  ‘“What do you want?”

  ‘“That little fingie.”

  ‘“Fine.” I gave him one of my picks.

  ‘“And … somefing else.”

  ‘Another splintering crash sounded. I was being out-manoeuvred by a ten-year-old.

  ‘“What?”

  ‘“Take me wif you when you leave.”

  ‘It was my intention anyway, but I nodded as if he’d won. Quickly the boy led me to one corner of the room. There he slid a large box across the damp stones, pulling back a dirty canvas to reveal a crude hole in the wall. Squeezing through it after the boy, and barely through a narrow passage, I arrived at an outdoor alley.

  It was blocked at both ends with high gates and barbed wire. The boy gestured up to a rusty ladder leading to the roof. He clambered up like a monkey, and I followed.

  ‘This was evidently a well-used route for him. The ice on the slanted roof was treacherous, but we managed to traverse it in the growing snowfall, only to arrive at a four-foot chasm between our building and the next. Facing us was a newly constructed wing of the mill.

  ‘The boy turned and smiled at me. “You game, then, sir?”

  I nodded. He nimbly made the leap with the ease of a spring hare, and then looked back at me. “You sure?” He grinned, daring me to take a chance.

  ‘To his great surprise I easily made the jump with space to spare. “Not bad for an ol’ man,” he said.

  ‘“Old is a relative concept,” I replied.

  ‘A trapdoor in the roof opened into another larger storeroom, which looked to be the despatch room. Boxes and boxes of finished fabric were stacked high. Here the insulation was more efficient and the room a liveable temperature.

  ‘We stopped to catch our breath and to warm our hands next to a vent from which a draught of slightly warmer air wafted from the floor below.

  ‘The boy motioned to me and I followed him to a cramped, secret space behind a pile of boxes, where straw, blankets and a meagre stack of food items were secreted. Several books and magazines were there, as well as a few candle remnants.

  ‘But this was no secret hideaway of a dreamy child who wished to read and think alone. Instead, it had the feral aspect of a wild animal’s bolt-hole.

  ‘We sat and could hear the hue and cry for us in the distance.

  ‘“They won’t find us here,” the boy said. He sighed, and pulled a piece of dirty bread from under a cloth. Green mould covered one side. He carefully broke off that section, and took a piece from the other. He chewed hungrily.

  ‘We regarded each other. He held out a clean piece to me. The bread was revolting, but the gesture was touchingly generous.

  ‘I took it and smiled. “Thank you.” I pretended to take a bite. His sharp eyes missed nothing and he looked askance at me. I took an actual bite.

  ‘“Freddie,” he said. “S’my name. You wants to know.”

  ‘“Orphan?” I asked.

  ‘He laughed bitterly. “Course not. Me mum will be by directly, wif tea and cake.”

  ‘And to protect you from your tormentors, I thought. “Were you taken here from the Willows Orphanage?” I asked.

  ‘“Who is it wants to know?”

  ‘I sighed, debating my next move. Then I noticed a dog-eared, stained issue of last year’s Beeton’s Christmas Annual edging out from under a blanket. I recognized it instantly as the one containing the first of your – forgive me, Watson – rather lurid accounts of our adventures. “Are you a reader, then?” I as
ked.

  ‘He followed my glance and tucked the magazine out of sight. “I reads a little,” he said guardedly.

  ‘“The orphanage taught you?”

  ‘“Me mum. Before the orphanage. Now I asks again. ’Oo are you?”

  ‘“Freddie, you may have read of me. My name is Sherlock Holmes,” I said. “I have come to investigate the disappearance of several children from this mill. Do you happen to know anything about this?”

  ‘Freddie paused with a glance to where the magazine was stashed. He wanted to believe but could not. “You ain’t no Sherlock Holmes. ’E don’t look like you.”

  ‘But of course he was right! I was still “Bill MacPherson, day labourer”. I took off my cap and my wig of red, curly hair, revealing my own dark hair, and then pulled off my long sidewhiskers and moustache, sitting before him now as myself. Once again his jaw dropped open.

  ‘“Cor!” he said. “You’re ’im!”

  ‘I suppose there are benefits to your accounts, Watson. “About those missing children?” I asked. “Be quick, Freddie, it’s time to leave.”

  ‘Once the floodgates were open, Freddie proved a voluble witness. Three children had disappeared, the last a close friend. All had been from the orphanage, all boys, between ten and twelve years old.

  ‘The abduction itself had not been witnessed, except for the first child, and that not clearly. But Freddie did notice someone he described only as a “very large man” silhouetted against the door to the main floor of the mill. This man had appeared twice around the time of the disappearances. Once he had pointed towards Peter, a small fair-haired child, who was the first to disappear. Peter had been plucked from the mill floor, bodily carried outside, and when he began to moan in fear, was promised “a sweet if he would come quietly”. It was the last anyone saw of poor Peter.