by Carole Bugge
Lestrade sat staring at Holmes for a moment. “I see what you’re getting at,” he said slowly, “but why couldn’t we just pretend that we’ve hidden it?”
“Oh, Moriarty is far too clever to fall for a ruse like that,” said Holmes. “He would find out sooner or later. And besides, there is a leak somewhere in Scotland Yard.”
Lestrade stared at Holmes as though he had been slapped. When he spoke, his voice was a hoarse whisper.
“What did you say?”
“I said there’s a leak somewhere in Scotland Yard.”
Lestrade opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came. At that moment the door opened and Mrs. Hudson entered bearing a tray of tea and hot cross buns.
“I thought you might need a little nourishment,” she said, setting the tray down on the coffee table.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” I said, and began to pour tea for everyone. After Mrs. Hudson had gone, Lestrade still didn’t say anything for some moments, and the only sound in the room was the rattling of china as I handed the tea round. Finally Lestrade rose from his chair and stared into the fire, which flickered feebly in the grate.
“I suppose you think me quite an idiot, Mr. Holmes,” he said quietly.
“I think nothing of the kind,” Holmes replied. “I have had years of dealing with Moriarty; he is so clever that he usually hides every trace of his actions, and it is only by paying very close attention to small details that one is able to decipher his movements.”
“That’s all very well and fine,” Lestrade said bitterly, “but a leak in Scotland Yard—that’s a bit thick, don’t you think?” He sounded as though he were accusing Holmes of planting the leak himself.
“Inspector, believe me, I only just figured it out myself; you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself.”
“And so how did you figure it out, then?” Lestrade said, a challenge in his tone.
“Well, actually, it was Freddie Stockton.”
“Oh, you mean the fellow they found in the Thames?”
“Whoever they found in the Thames, Inspector, it wasn’t Freddie Stockton. I can assure you he is alive and well.”
“What?” Lestrade put down his teacup so abruptly that it rattled.
“Watson saw him too.”
Lestrade turned to me, his eyes pleading.
“Yes, I’m afraid it’s true. Holmes and I saw him last night,” I said.
“But, why—I mean, who—”
“Who exactly is lying in the morgue right now? I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that, Inspector, though I have some ideas... how many men do you currently have working undercover?”
Lestrade shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know, around fifteen or so, I should think.”
“Have any of them been late in reporting in recently?”
Lestrade screwed up his face. “Well, let me think now... hold on a minute—yes, there is one: Hazelton! We haven’t heard from him in a couple of days.” His face suddenly fell. “Good Lord, you don’t think...” he said unsteadily.
“I think it very likely that it was Hazelton fished out of the Thames yesterday. The question is, who managed to get him identified as Freddie Stockton?”
“Well, he does look a bit like Stockton, except that the hair is different.”
“I have a hunch, Inspector, that would be borne up by a trip to the morgue. What do you say, Watson; can you be dressed in quarter of an hour?”
“Certainly,” I said, setting down my cup. “Though I don’t think you should be running around—”
Holmes dismissed me with an impatient snort.
“One of these days, Holmes,” I said, “you are going to regret not taking my advice.”
Holmes looked at me, his face serious.
“Watson, may I remind you what is at stake here?”
And so it was that twenty minutes later we were on our way to the city morgue with a very subdued Inspector Lestrade, who sat in the cab hardly saying a word. The morgue attendant looked surprised to see us, but led us immediately into the preternaturally clean storage room, every inch of the white walls and floors scrubbed and shining. I inhaled the sharp, rather sickening smell of formaldehyde, so familiar to me from my days as a medical student.
“Ah, here he is: number eighteen,” the attendant said, pulling out the white-sheeted body from its bin. The rolling wheels echoed hollowly through the stark whiteness of the room as he slid the metal tray out with its grisly contents. Holmes lifted the sheet to reveal the man’s face. The first thing I noticed was the hair: It was the same curious white-blond shade as Freddie Stockton. The water had done some damage to the face, however, and the features were blurred, so that recognition wasn’t an easy task. Lestrade, however, sighed grimly.
“That’s him, that’s Hazelton,” he said sadly.
“This is not his natural hair color, of course,” said Holmes.
“No, he has brown hair. Why do you suppose it’s like this?”
“To make him look more like Freddie Stockton, of course.” Holmes turned to the attendant. “The cause of death was strangulation, I believe?”
The attendant nodded. “That’s right, sir.”
“He may have even been strangled first and then his hair dyed,” said Holmes. “Watson, would there be any way to determine the order of those events?”
I shook my head. “Not that I know of. The hair even continues to grow for some time after death, so that some darkness of the roots could exist in either case.”
There was a knock on the door and the attendant rose to answer it. He opened it to admit two police officers carrying a body wrapped in canvas, which they deposited on one of the tables.
“What’s this all about, Connally?” Lestrade said to one of the men.
“Fellow by the name of William Strater, sir. He’s been murdered—an East End job. Looks like it was a pub brawl. Routine matter, I expect, sir.”
“May I see?” said Holmes to the attendant.
“Certainly, sir,” he answered. He was a small, dapper man with thick glasses, and looked more like an accountant than someone you would expect to find working in a morgue. When he lifted the sheet, Holmes whistled softly.
“Have a look at this, Watson.”
I did, and saw at once what had made Holmes whistle: There upon the table, was our cribbage partner from the Lancelot Arms, throat cut from ear to ear, his neck a horrible red grin.
“Good heavens, it’s Yellow Teeth!” I exclaimed. Lestrade and Holmes both looked at me curiously. “Oh, I—that’s what I called him. I mean, because of his teeth, you see?” I said lamely.
“Do you know this man, Mr. Holmes?” said Lestrade.
“We met him two nights ago at the Lancelot Arms,” Holmes replied. “He knew about the attempt to smuggle the Star of India. In fact, it was he who gave us the information, though he was unaware he had divulged the secret.”
“So we’re not the only ones with information leaks,” Lestrade said with some satisfaction.
“That could explain his turning up here!” I exclaimed. “When Moriarty found out the information had been leaked, he had this man killed as an example.”
Holmes looked at the body lying on the table. “Yes... I wonder how many more will have to die before this is all over?” he mused. “First Mr. Wiggins, then Hazelton, and now this fellow Strater.”
Lestrade sighed and shook his head. “Poor Hazelton... he was about to go on holiday.”
“Didn’t his wife notice he was missing?” said Holmes.
Lestrade shook his head. “He wasn’t married. The ones we use for undercover mostly aren’t; it’s a difficult job, you know, and often the hours are long...”
Holmes nodded. “I see. They picked their victim carefully. I wonder why Hazelton, though? Was he getting too close to them, perhaps?”
Lestrade shrugged. “I had him working in an opium den—perhaps you know it—the Bar of Gold? It’s a meeting place for smugglers.”
“Oh, I know it well,” s
aid Holmes. “I have on one or two occasions been there myself. On official business, of course,” he added, seeing Lestrade’s surprised look. “Perhaps it’s time to pay another visit,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe I can find out what Hazelton was on to.”
“Holmes, do you think it wise?” I said. “I mean, look at what happened to Hazelton.”
Holmes smiled. “With all due respect, Watson, Hazelton was neither prepared nor equipped to deal with Professor James Moriarty.”
Holmes’ tone expressed his usual confidence, but I couldn’t help wondering whether anyone was prepared for such a daunting task.
Eleven
At Lestrade’s request we returned with him to Scotland Yard. When we entered his office, there, sitting on Lestrade’s desk, was a large shiny brass birdcage, tied around with a broad red ribbon. Lestrade looked at us and then at the cage; then, without a word, he went to the door and opened it.
“Morgan!” he called, and the young sergeant appeared at the door.
“Yes, sir?”
“What is this?” Lestrade said, indicating the cage.
“Well, sir, it’s a sort of... present.”
“A present?”
The young man blushed and stared at his smartly polished shoes. “Yes, sir. You see, sir, me and the lads thought that since you’re going to keep the parrot you might like to have a nice cage for him to live in when you’re not around. The fellow at the pet shop says parrots like a nice comfy cage. He said it makes them feel secure, like.”
“Oh, he did, did he?”
“Yes, sir—do you like it, sir? I picked it out myself.”
Lestrade looked at the cage, then at the floor, his face working. I looked away and Holmes coughed delicately.
“It’s very nice, thank you,” Lestrade said finally, his voice thick.
“I’m glad you like it, sir. I’ll tell the lads; they’ll be pleased as well.” Morgan stood there for a moment and then he pulled himself to attention. “Right... well, then, I’ll go back to my desk duty, sir, if that’s all.”
“Where is he, by the way?” said Lestrade.
“Who? Oh, you mean the parrot? Oh, I’ve been looking after him, sir, until we found out if you like the cage or not. I’ll bring him right round and then he can get acquainted with his new home. We thought it best for you to introduce him to it, sir.”
“Yes, that seems the best thing.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you, Morgan.”
We followed Lestrade into his office. There was no more mention of parrots or cages, though the handsome brass cage sat behind Lestrade’s desk during our entire visit.
“I have some ideas about how to solve your... problem,” Holmes said softly. He scribbled something on a piece of paper and slid it across Lestrade’s desk. Lestrade read it, his face impassive.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll await your instructions.”
“Right,” said Holmes. “Well, I’m off to do my best to impersonate an opium addict.”
“Oh, right, the Bar of Gold. Do you want me to post a couple of lads outside the place to keep an eye on you?”
Holmes shook his head. “It would just alert them that something is up. It’s best if I go alone.”
“All right, then—good luck.”
“Thank you, Lestrade. Well, Watson, shall we go?”
* * *
“Who would have thought Lestrade had a soft spot for birds, of all things?” said Holmes as we left the imposing stone turrets of Scotland Yard behind us. “It just goes to show, Watson, that you never know about people.”
“No, I suppose not.” I thought of Holmes and our long association, and wondered if there were aspects of his personality which would always remain a mystery to me. I looked at him— he was very wan and pale, and I couldn’t help noticing that his hand was pressed to his left side as we walked. “Holmes, I think you should rest a bit before you go rushing around again,” I said.
He sighed. “Watson, I appreciate your concern, but really, I’ll be all right.”
If I had known at the time just how wrong he was I never would have let him walk back out the front door of 221B Baker Street.
When we arrived at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson greeted us at the door.
“Miss Merriweather is waiting upstairs, Mr. Holmes,” she said, wiping flour from her apron, her face red from the heat of the kitchen. “I didn’t know when you’d return, but I told her she could wait; I hope you don’t mind.”
“Perfectly all right, Mrs. Hudson,” said Holmes, and we went upstairs to see our visitor. The curtains were drawn; a filmy light filtered in through the windows, falling on the graceful head and shoulders of our guest, resting gently on her smooth black hair. She sat looking out the window, and turned toward us as we entered.
“Oh, Mr. Holmes, I hope you don’t mind my waiting for you,” said Violet Merriweather, rising from her chair by the window. With the light behind her I couldn’t see her face; she stood there wrapped in a misty yellow glow. Again I felt the heady fragrance of Golden Nights. Instead of bothering me, the scent now intoxicated me, and I stood there for a moment drinking it in.
“Not at all, Miss Merriweather,” Holmes replied. “It has become something of a pattern. If you would inform me in advance by telegram that you are coming, you would not be inconvenienced by having to wait.”
Miss Merriweather took a step toward us and lowered her lovely dark eyes. “Oh, I don’t mind,” she said, “and I really don’t have anything in particular to ask of you...” her voice trailed off and she regarded Holmes shyly from under her thick black lashes. However, if Holmes was aware of the import of her gaze, he made no sign of it. He plucked some tobacco from the Persian slipper which hung over the fireplace, and sat down to fill his old clay pipe.
“Please sit down,” he said to Miss Merriweather without looking at her, as though he were entirely absorbed in filling his pipe.
“Thank you,” said she uncertainly, and sat upon the sofa.
“Would you care for some tea?” I said lamely, to fill the empty air.
“Oh, no, thank you—Mrs. Hudson has been plying me with all sorts of delicacies in your absence. She said she didn’t know where you had gone.”
“We just came from Scotland Yard,” I said.
“And is there any news?”
I was about to say that the Star of India was quite safe, but Holmes spoke first.
“I’m afraid not,” he said, “though I believe a parrot of our acquaintance has found a good home there.”
“A parrot?” she said.
“Oh, yes; the chief inspector there has taken a fancy to him, it seems. Do you think he’ll keep the parrot’s name, Watson? Oh, what is it? It’s really very clever; it’s an Indian word meaning ‘friend’.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, “it’s—”
“Dost?” said Miss Merriweather helpfully.
Holmes looked at her. “No, that’s not right—wait! I have it: it was Bandu. Actually, now that I think of it, I believe our late friend Wiggins told us that it’s a Bengali word.”
“Oh, of course,” she said, smiling. “Dost is a Hindu word.”
“You speak the language, Miss Merriweather?”
“Well, I spent some time there as a child. My parents toured quite a bit, and my brother and I were always—”
“Oh, you have a brother?” said Holmes.
“I had a brother, Mr. Holmes. He was killed in an accident when we were children.”
“I see; I am very sorry.”
I for one did not see how Holmes could be failed to be moved by this lovely creature sitting before us, whose life was such a strange combination of tragedy and drama, but he seemed as indifferent as ever, and sat puffing placidly on his pipe.
“Well, I am sorry to have taken up your valuable time,” said Miss Merriweather, rising from the couch and moving toward the door. “It is just that I am so concerned about—well, you understand, Mr. Holmes. I have
been given to believe that much is at stake in this affair.”
“Oh, you are quite right, Miss Merriweather,” Holmes said. “There is much at stake indeed, perhaps more than even you know.”
She looked at him curiously and then slid her arm into the sleeve of the coat which I held for her. “If any man can unravel this Gordian knot, I am sure you can, Mr. Holmes,” she said.
“I shall do my best, I can assure you,” said Holmes.
I escorted Miss Merriweather to the door.
“Thank you for your kindness, Dr. Watson,” she said.
“Not at all, Miss Merriweather,” I said, opening the door for her.
“Good-bye, Mr. Holmes.”
“Good-bye,” Holmes called out over his shoulder, his mind already somewhere else.
“Good-bye,” I said, and closed the door after her. A lingering scent of Golden Nights trailed after her. The combination of the perfume and the lack of sleep made me feel quite giddy, and for an instant I thought I might pass out.
“Steady on, Watson,” said Holmes without looking at me.
I walked unsteadily over to my chair and sat down across from Holmes. He sat smoking his pipe, an impenetrable expression on his leonine face.
“Holmes,” I said, “I do believe you don’t trust Miss Merriweather.”
He shrugged. “She is a woman, Watson, and trusting them has always been your department. As for me—well, you know my views on the subject.”
“But, Holmes, can’t you see that she is quite infatuated with you? She likes you; take my word for it.”
Holmes looked at me. “Does she?” he said softly. “I wonder.”
After much effort, I persuaded Holmes to rest that night and visit the Bar of Gold the following day. We dined at Baker Street. At precisely seven o’clock Jenny came into the room, curtsied, and informed us that dinner was ready. Mrs. Hudson had by now entirely taken Jenny under her wing. The frightened, haunted look on the girl’s face was beginning to fade, and her eyes were alive with the healthy curiosity of a normal child.