by Carole Bugge
“Be careful, Watson,” he said. “I don’t know what we’ll find inside.”
Upon entering the shop I felt at once that something was horribly wrong. We were greeted by a piteous, high-pitched keening, much like the wailing of a small child. The sound came from Bandu the parrot, who was at his usual place behind the counter. However, as soon as we closed the door behind us, the noise abruptly ceased. The silence was as startling as the wailing had been. The perfume bottles sat upon their shelves, their rich colors reflecting in the gas light, and Bandu sat upon his perch, gazing at us with his bright orange eyes, but there was no sign of Wiggins.
Holmes turned to me, his face rigid.
“There has been foul play here, Watson, foul play indeed.”
I followed Holmes through an ocher brocade curtain that separated the front room from a narrow hallway which led to the rear of the building: Wiggins’ laboratory. As we walked down the hallway I inhaled the smell of a hundred different scents, some sharp and clear as a mountain stream, some musky, others flowery and sweet. I felt quite dizzy by the time we entered the room.
When we entered the laboratory, we found the pitiful sight which we so dreaded. Wiggins was seated at his laboratory desk, clad in a white lab coat, his body slumped over in the chair. It was immediately clear to me that he was dead.
Holmes stood for several moments, still as a statue, then he turned to me. His normally impassive face was suffused with such fury that I took a step backwards, startled in spite of myself.
“By God, Watson, whoever did this to Wiggins will pay! I swear to you I will avenge his death with my own hands!” he hissed through clenched teeth.
I said nothing, afraid to interrupt Holmes in this mood. I looked around the room: It was a well-stocked laboratory, with shining modern equipment set out upon two large tables. Another set of specially constructed shelves held small vials of fragrance samples as well as spare equipment: beakers, test tubes, pipettes, and Petri dishes. Wiggins had been justifiably proud of his laboratory, and I remembered sadly his promise to show it to us upon our next visit. I turned to Holmes, who was examining Wiggins’ body.
“What do you make of this, Watson?” he said.
I examined Wiggins’ body. There were no visible wounds, but redness around the neck area and the purplish cast to his face indicated strangulation. I told Holmes this, and he nodded grimly.
“Damn that storm! We never should have stayed in Cornwall last night,” he said bitterly. “I was right when I suspected they wanted me out of London.”
“Yes, but even if you were in London, I doubt that you would have prevented this,” I said gently.
“Perhaps not, but now the trail is cold.”
“It wouldn’t have been difficult to kill him, you know. The condition he suffers from frequently makes it difficult for the sufferer to breathe normally anyway...” I looked at his poor, pathetic form. If ever a man had not deserved what fate had dealt him, it was Wiggins. “But who would want Wiggins dead?” I wondered out loud.
“That is precisely what I intend to find out,” Holmes replied, his face set, jaw clenched.
“We shall have to inform the police, you know,” I said.
“Yes, yes, but first we must see what clues we can find before they come along and spoil everything,” Holmes replied impatiently, inspecting the floor around Wiggins’ desk. “Here’s a little something,” he said, picking it up and examining it under the lamp.
“What is it?”
“A hair, Watson.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, but not one of Wiggins’ hairs; perhaps it is the hair of the murderer. In any case, it is very light—almost white—and very coarse.”
I tried to imagine an old, white-haired man killing the unfortunate Wiggins, but it didn’t seem likely.
“Very well,” said Holmes after inspecting the crime scene thoroughly. “I shall leave the rest for Scotland Yard. Come, Watson, let us see if they have left clues for us anywhere else.”
I followed Holmes back through the cramped hallway into the front room of the shop. Bandu appeared very excited to seeus, bouncing up and down on his perch.
“B-b-be quiet!” he said loudly. “B-b-be quiet, y-y-you idiot!”
Holmes stopped where he was and looked at the parrot.
“Did you hear that, Watson?” he said.
“Yes, he said ‘Be quiet, you—’ “
“I know what he said!” Holmes hissed impatiently. “It’s how he said it that matters!”
As if to oblige, the parrot repeated his comment.
“B-b-be quiet, y-y-you idiot!”
“That’s it—do you see, Watson?” said Holmes.
“You mean, he’s stuttering?” I said.
“Yes!” said Holmes. “Wiggins never stuttered.”
“Maybe one of his clients—”
“Do you remember what Wiggins said about this parrot? That he liked to pick up new sayings, and that he was always changing his latest phrases?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Don’t you see, Watson: there were two men here, not one, and the parrot is repeating what one of the men said to the other!”
“Good God—you’re right, Holmes!”
He removed the hair from his pocket and looked at it under the light. His face darkened and he put the hair back in his pocket.
“I think it’s time to pay a visit to Freddie Stockton.”
Of all the nasty fellows Holmes and I had dealt with over the years, there were few nastier than Freddie Stockton. I had first come across him during The Strange Case of the Tongue-Tied Tenor, during his employment by Professor Moriarty before the fall at Reichenbach cut short his illustrious criminal career. After Moriarty’s death, Stockton worked for Colonel Moran for a while, and then, after that gentleman was jailed through Holmes’ efforts, Stockton turned to various pursuits: blackmail, theft, and the occasional beating. Holmes had once told me that even among London criminal society it was said of Freddie Stockton that he would strangle his own grandmother for the price of a pint. Physically, Stockton was distinguished by two striking characteristics: his profuse whitish blond hair and a pronounced stutter.
Now Holmes and I were in search of this princely character. After procuring a hansom cab Holmes gave the driver instructions to take us to the East End, where the mix of poverty and predators created a dangerous and squalid environment.
“Do you remember the Swiss tourists we saw in Cornwall, Watson?” Holmes said, leaning against the window of our cab as it swayed back and forth upon the cobblestones.
“Yes,” I answered. “One of them had whitish blond hair, just like Stockton. Do you think it’s possible that he was one of the tourists?”
“I think it not only possible but likely,” said Holmes grimly. “Unfortunately I barely glanced at him—as you can imagine, my mind was on other things. And, as you noticed, his cap was hiding most of his face. He must have come straight back to London after we saw him—he may even have thought we recognized him.”
Our cab stopped in front of a low, unsavory tavern called The Drowned Rat. The sign hanging above the entrance had a picture of a waterlogged rodent, evidently deceased. Holmes paid the driver and we alighted.
“Watch yourself among these men, Watson,” Holmes said before we went in. “They would just as soon pull a knife on you as look at you.”
I nodded, wishing I had brought along my service revolver. I took a deep breath and followed Holmes into the tavern.
If any of the clientele in this charming establishment actually had no criminal record, it wasn’t immediately obvious. One would be hard pressed to find a more hardened, depraved, or menacing crew than the one gathered at The Drowned Rat. Holmes and I were so clearly an anomaly among this crowd—just by virtue of the way we were dressed, if nothing else—that I feared for our safety. Several rough-looking fellows stared at us when we entered, but Holmes strode straight ahead with his usual confidence and they left us alone. Evide
ntly they felt we weren’t worth bothering about. We made our way through the cloud of tobacco smoke to the bar, where the huge and unkempt bartender ignored us for as long as he possibly could before finally asking us what we wanted. Holmes gazed at him calmly.
“Freddie Stockton,” he said evenly.
The bartender blinked, and then he laughed, showing his large, discolored teeth.
“Now what would fine gentl’men like you be wantin’ with the likes o’ Freddie?”
Holmes did not smile; not a muscle moved on his taut face. The bartender fidgeted with his filthy rag, and then he frowned.
“Freddie’s not ’ere right now.”
“Then find us someone who can tell us where he is.”
The bartender looked as if he were about to say something, and then he shrugged.
“Well, I s’pose Wickham would know.”
“And where can I find him?”
“’E’s in t’ back room.”
Without a word Holmes turned and walked in the direction the bartender had indicated, through a corridor which led to a dark and foul-smelling back room. A dozen or so men were seated on benches around a pit in which a small white terrier was shaking a rat that it held between its teeth. The pit was littered with the corpses of rats who had already met their fate in the fangs of this ferocious beast. The men were laughing and egging on the terrier with cries of, “Go, Billy!” and “Come on, finish him off!”
The stench in the room was vile, a disgusting combination of stale smoke, sweat, sawdust, and death. A couple of the men looked up at us as we entered.
“Is Wickham here?” Holmes said loudly.
Several of the men snickered. A fat, hairy-armed man shoved a tattooed elbow into the side of the fellow sitting next to him.
“Oi, Wickham, didn’t you ’ear the gentl’man—yer wanted!”
His companion was a tall, thin, bespectacled man—singular among this crowd—with a look of corrupted respectability. He peered nervously at Holmes and myself.
“Are you Wickham?” said Holmes sternly.
“What if I am?” he replied with an attempt at a sneer that came off as a sulk.
Holmes walked up to Wickham and grasped him by the collar, practically lifting him up off his seat.
“Then I hope for your sake you can tell me what I need to know,” he said, pulling the man’s face close to his.
Wickham’s face reddened, though I could not tell if it was from fright or from the fact that Holmes was cutting off his air supply. In any event, he managed to choke out a reply.
“All right; all right, guv’ner—what do you want to know?”
Holmes released his grasp on Wickham.
“Just this: Where is Freddie Stockton?”
Wickham rubbed his throat and looked around for help, but his comrades were enjoying the spectacle of his interrogation more than the efforts of the energetic Billy, who had just sent two more rats off to meet their maker.
“Well, I—I suppose you might find ’im at Penny Annie’s about now,” Wickham said, his voice shaking. “It’s in Lambeth—just ask anyone.”
Holmes stared at the man as if assessing the veracity of his statement. Then, evidently satisfied, he turned around and, without a word, left the room. I followed after, hearing as I went the taunting voices of Wickham’s comrades: “Oo, what ’a ya done now, Wickham, my boy?” and “Good thing you told ’im or ’eed ’a turned you into terrier meat!” followed by shrill, raucous laughter.
Holmes left the pub without so much as a glance at the bartender or any of the rough lot who looked us over as we made our way out. Holmes seemed utterly unconcerned by the sullen faces which squinted up at us from the various tables, although I for one was glad to get out of there. It is a facet of my friend’s character that when he is focused on a task he cares little for his own personal safety. However, I am more easily intimidated, and I breathed a sigh of relief when we stood once more in the cold night air of the London street. I took a deep breath; even the London atmosphere was an improvement upon the fetid air we had just left.
I wanted to say something to Holmes, but, seeing his determined face in the lamplight, I couldn’t think of what to say. We hailed a cab and soon we were among the winding streets of Lambeth. The cab pulled up alongside a row of respectable-looking shops, and I could see light coming from the upper stories of the buildings. As we climbed out of the cab, the sound of shouting and laughter greeted our ears, almost drowning out the sound of music coming from the upper floors of the buildings. People were coming and going in and out of the buildings, in groups or in pairs. Most were shabbily dressed, their faces flushed with drink, arms flung around each other in a casual camaraderie made easy by cheap gin. Holmes stopped one of the more respectable-looking couples.
“Can you tell me which of these establishments is Penny Annie’s?”
The woman, who hung somewhat crookedly on her companion’s arm, straightened up and regarded Holmes with a smile. Her lipstick was smeared, and her half-closed eyes indicated her inebriated state. A soiled yellow silk shawl hung rakishly over one shoulder.
“Why do you want to go in there, luv?” she said.
“Hey, sod that,” said her companion, a short, muscular man who was dressed in a striped sailor’s shirt.
“Oh, go to, Eddie, I’m just ’aving fun,” she said, turning to Holmes. “It’s the one on the end—there.” She pointed to a brightly lit establishment with the tinny sound of a concertina coming from its windows.
“Thank you,” said Holmes.
“Any time,” she said as her companion pulled her away. I could hear them arguing as Holmes and I made our way to our destination.
“You’re my girl, Mary. Why do you make me suffer so?”
“Oh, Eddie, don’t fuss at me; it’s only in fun.”
Penny Annie’s was one of the many “penny gaffs” which were to be found all over the city: places where disreputable performers sang and danced for a variety of customers. After the show the “performers” were often available for a more private engagement.
As Holmes and I ascended a staircase littered with walnut shells and orange peels, we could hear the laughter and shouting above us mixing with the stalwart concertina, which droned on bravely through the din. I could just barely hear a penny whistle weaving in and out of the melody. The “theatre” was comprised of a converted flat: a rough stage had been constructed at one end of the long room, and benches had been set along the floor. A motley crowd sat upon these seats—sailors and dock workers mixed with some who appeared to be office employees on a night out. Dustmen rubbed shoulders with prosperous-looking merchants; and a few of the customers wore the distinctive red silk neckerchiefs which labeled them as costermongers, or street vendors.
One customer stood out, though, even if you weren’t looking for him. Burly, with muscular shoulders and a snarl for a smile, he was like many of the other men we had seen tonight, except that he was distinguished by his striking complexion. His hair was so blond that it was almost white, and his skin was so pale that it shone like a beacon from among the ruddy, sunburned lot who surrounded him. I recognized him immediately as the second Swiss tourist we had seen upon the moor, though he was now without his little mustache.
“Stay here, Watson!” Holmes hissed, and began to make his way through the crowd. Stockton was seated on one of the benches in the back, and could not see Holmes approach. I stood at my post by the door and looked at the stage. A suggestively dressed woman well past forty years old was dancing to the tunes which the concertina player continued to grind out; she jiggled and bobbed, flipped her skirts and displayed whatever she could to the grinning customers in the front row, who whistled and grabbed at her. She was too quick for them, though, and they always ended up with a fistful of air for their efforts. They didn’t seem to mind, and howled with laughter, cheering her on.
The woman’s thick curly hair had been dyed an improbable shade of red, her make-up was running in rivulets d
own her sweaty cheeks—so that one had the impression she was crying rainbow-colored tears—and yet there was something both game and touching about her. She was giving her customers their money’s worth, and I had to admire her dogged energy and determination. The concertina player sat, cigarette hanging from his lips, reeling off tune after tune, gazing implacably above the heads of his listeners.
Holmes had reached his destination, and I looked up just in time to see him place a hand on Freddie Stockton’s collar. Stockton hadn’t seen him coming, and, when he saw Holmes, real terror passed over his unpleasant face. Holmes half dragged him through the crowd over to where I was standing.
“Let’s go, Watson,” he said, and we left the theatre.
Once outside, Holmes dragged Stockton around to the side of the building and held him up against the wall.
“All right, Stockton, let’s hear it, and it had better be convincing,” said Holmes.
“I d-d-don’t know what you’re t-t-talking about,” Stockton said sullenly.
“Oh yes you do, and it will go better for you if you talk sooner rather than later.” He held Stockton about six inches off the ground. “Now, you have exactly one minute to tell me why you killed Jeremiah Wiggins.”
Holmes was not a violent man, but I don’t like to think what he would have done to Stockton if the man had not confessed.
“It w-w-wasn’t supposed to happen like that; I d-d-didn’t do anything to him,” Stockton muttered.
“Didn’t do anything to him?” Holmes said, his voice hoarse with rage. “He’s dead, and you didn’t do anything to him?”
“Well, not m-m-much, anyway. I just... t-t-tried to s-s-scare him a little... and all of a s-s-sudden ’e was d-d-d-dead.”
Holmes tightened his grip on Stockton’s throat, and, not wanting my friend to answer to murder charges himself, I put my hand on his shoulder.
“Holmes,” I said softly.
“What is it, Watson?” he answered irritably.
“His condition—the disease—it would have made strangling him by accident quite easy. As I mentioned before, one of the side effects of his condition is difficulty—”