by Geri Schear
Derby’s system, though accurate enough when it comes to figures and cash receipts, is wanting when it comes to identifying her victims. She used nicknames which she, no doubt, thought amusing: “Mr Jockey” turned out to be Sir Sidney Rider; “Lady Pink Blancmange” is Lady Prudence Barnsley (though I must say, the nickname seems appropriate if her photograph does her justice); and “The Fish” is Cuthbert Salmon.
I would be inclined to just toss the lot on the fire and have done with it, but I determined to make sure the victims are guilty of nothing worse than slight indiscretions. So far, I’ve managed to process a mere dozen of these relics. As expected, almost all of these documents relate to illicit love affairs, some of a startlingly prurient nature. What a sad indictment of the state of matrimony in this country.
After I finish examining each letter or picture I burn it, then Watson writes to the former victim saying that their former employee, Liz Derby, has died and all papers in her possession have been destroyed. Watson’s literary talent enables him to phrase these letters in such a way as to convey sympathy and yet leave the reader in no doubt that their worries of blackmail are over.
Thus far, only one of the letters has revealed a scandal worthy of the courts. HL, the prominent barrister, poisoned his late wife. Given that his current bride is exhibiting the same symptoms, I wasted no time in forwarding the incriminating letter (ironically from the killer to the present Mrs L) to Scotland Yard.
Anyway, this morning, feeling much better and utterly bored with both the task and my bedroom walls, I decided it was time to call upon my brother.
Whether because of Watson’s presence or for some other reason, our journey was uneventful. The watchers followed us, but at a distance. Their aim seemed only to monitor my movements, which is irksome, but I am conscious that matters could be far worse.
“I don’t see why we couldn’t have taken a cab, Holmes,” Watson grumbled.
“And I don’t see why you couldn’t return my pipe. Come, Watson, its only rain. I’d have thought you’d enjoy the fresh air and exercise; you’re forever extolling their virtues. Besides, I have good reason for walking.”
“Which is?”
“It amuses me to see my two shadows look so disconsolate.”
Our journey took us through the West End and it was pleasant to be back in the hustle and bustle again. Watson held his temper far better than I expected and it wasn’t until Haymarket that he turned suddenly to challenge our shadows. Brandishing his umbrella he shouted, “Hey, you there!” and gave chase. Oh, I did laugh! Watson, his head wet, the umbrella bobbing above the heads of the startled shoppers and tourists as he ran through them.
The two villains did not wait but vanished into the crowd. I leaned against a lamppost and chortled until I could scarcely breathe.
A few minutes later my companion returned and gave me a withering look which, I am ashamed to admit, only made me laugh the louder.
“Cowards,” Watson cried into the throng.
“It does no good to get upset, Watson,” I said once I’d caught my breath. “It is certainly unsettling but thus far, as I have already reminded you, this pair have broken no laws.”
“Well there should be a law.”
“Have you forgotten that I, myself, have been known to follow people on occasion?”
I spoke more nonchalantly than I feel. I very much doubt I’ve seen the last of the attempts against my life. All my instincts tell me the danger, far from being past, is greater than ever.
I am filled with foreboding, but this villainy must be met with wit and guile; not a spontaneous outburst of annoyance. It does no good to sever the limbs when the beast has so many others. It is the head we must destroy.
We reached Mycroft’s offices without further incident. Though I’d never have admitted it to Watson, it was a relief to get indoors away from the rain and my odious shadows.
“Bad day, Mr Holmes,” Gillespie said. “Would you like me to take your coats? I’ve a nice fire going in here so they should be dry by the time you leave.”
“Thank you, Mr Gillespie. This is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson. Watson, if my brother Mycroft is the cog that keeps the British government working, Gillespie is the oil that enables him to function.”
“Ah, it’s very kind of you to say so, Mr Holmes.” Gillespie shook my friend’s hand and added, “I enjoy your stories very much, Doctor. What adventures you have.”
Watson, I fear, would have stood chatting about his tales for some time. I interrupted with, “Is my brother free?”
“He is, Mr Holmes. You may go right up. I shall bring you some coffee directly.”
Watson and I made our way up the stairs to the top floor. For a busy government building it was extraordinarily silent and our footsteps echoed in the wood and marble halls. It was Watson’s first visit and he was agog with curiosity.
“What goes on here, Holmes?” he whispered.
“Decisions that decide the governing of the empire,” I replied. “You may speak normally, you know.”
Mycroft called out an entrée at our knock. He was seated by a merry fire in an enormous armchair with his foot up on a stool. I heard Watson’s intake of breath as he beheld the magnificent view of Westminster Bridge through the rainy window.
We had barely sat when Gillespie arrived with a tray of coffee and cake.
“A whole week without a pipe, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, as soon as the old man left. “That will make a sinner of any saint. The doctor’s doing, I suppose?”
“Nothing is worse for a cough than tobacco,” Watson said.
“No doubt,” Mycroft said. He nodded his head and I rose, went to the door and checked. We had the floor to ourselves.
Thus satisfied, Mycroft began at once to review Perrot’s letters that I found in Bitterne.
“There is not enough in those Italian letters to work with, Sherlock. Still, it is interesting to know who this so-called ‘Perrot’ fellow calls his friends. Romano is as unsavoury a piece of work as I’ve encountered. Worth keeping an eye on the situation. I have alerted the Italian government.
“As to this other.” He picked up the letter I had copied. “You duplicated the contents precisely?”
“To the comma, I assure you.”
“Good, good. I did not doubt it, but as you know, it’s important in my business to be precise.”
“Mine, too.”
He smiled. “Quite. Well, then... I entirely agree with your analysis, Sherlock. Just as no good deed goes unpunished, it seems that no bad one cannot benefit someone. That Derby woman did the nation most excellent service by inadvertently drawing your attention to these documents.”
“Her greatest service was her death,” I replied, without humour. “It far outweighed anything she accomplished in her life.”
“I cannot believe a British gentleman would write such a letter,” Watson said. “To betray his country like that...”
“I’m afraid not all British gentlemen have your integrity, doctor,” Mycroft said. “This particular gentleman shall face the noose.”
“You have arrested him then?” Watson asked.
“Oh no, he’s still here. He’s hard at work just one floor down.”
“You cannot be serious,” Watson exclaimed. “Surely, Mr Holmes...”
Mycroft raised his hand. “He does not know we have unmasked him, doctor. He has no reason to suspect his secret has been revealed. This man is only one small cog in a much larger machine. We shall see where his treason may lead him. I assure you, justice has him in her sights and he will not escape. Unfortunately, the worse of the damage is already done. He has dealt us so grave a blow that we shall suffer the deadly consequences for many years to come.”
“The South African situation?” I said.
“Indeed.”
“Can nothing be done?” Watson asked.
“No. No, it’s too late, I’m afraid.” Mycroft spoke calmly but I could see his anger in the tightness of his jaw.
“Then... war?”
“I’m afraid so, Doctor. It’s inevitable. That our friend,” he picked up the offending letter and smacked it with the back of his hand, the first outward sign of his rage. “That our friend should have betrayed his own government in this manner is... Well, the matter would very likely have come to war without his help. Still...”
“So many lives will be lost,” Watson said. He rubbed absently at his left leg and I could see he was thinking of his own unhappy military experience.
“Yes. Unfortunate,” Mycroft said. “Most.”
We sat in silence, feeling the full weight of this pronouncement. Then Mycroft poured the coffee and said, “At best we might hope to delay it. I shall speak to the queen and see if the Kaiser may be invited for a visit. Her majesty has powers of persuasion that even Wilhelm’s mother cannot match. We might mitigate the problem if we are very lucky and very careful.”
Mycroft folded up the letter and slid it into his breast pocket. “It was exceedingly fortunate you unmasked this creature, Sherlock. There’s a knighthood in it for you, you know.”
I dismissed the honour with a wave of my hand. “I am not interested in such matters, as you know, Mycroft. But you will put your best men on this job? We cannot afford to let this creature slip away from us.”
“You need have no fear on that account. I’ve spoken to Bradstreet; you know there’s no sounder man in Christendom, save ourselves, of course.” He laughed, but the sound was somehow hollow and lacking in mirth. The unmasking of a man who had been a colleague, even, I dare say, a confident, is a heavy blow.
“There is enough here to justify an arrest, but I think we’ll keep the gentleman under surveillance a little longer,” he said.
“It explains his deception about Porlock’s return to the capitol, I think. Watson and I owe that gentleman for those bad moments with the dogs.”
“Quite right,” Watson said, shuddering.
“A small matter, brother, given the enormity of his other crimes. Fortunately you and the good doctor suffered no more than momentary alarm. Tell me, what did you make of this Perrot fellow?”
Watson spluttered and I gave him a sympathetic look. All very well for Mycroft to be so dismissive; he had not been there.
I replied, “Loathsome. A liar and a traitor and utterly without morals. I cannot say I was at all surprised to see he was the recipient of correspondence such as this. He was armed, too, as I wrote you. Although the weapon had not been recently fired, it had most definitely been used since its last cleaning.”
“How can you tell that, Holmes?” Watson asked.
“Because two bullets were missing from the chamber.”
“You think he’s Canadian?” Mycroft said.
“There is no mistaking the accent. No one but a clod could mistake him for a Frenchman.”
“Summerville did,” Watson said.
“Which rather makes my point, I think.”
Mycroft laughed again and sipped his coffee. He said, “It is unfortunate we do not know his true identity. I have sent inquiries to the Royal Canadian police service. I hope they shall be able to put a name to this villain. But we shall have him. It may take a little time, but we shall have him, Sherlock.”
“I hope you are right, Mycroft. And I hope we capture him before he does any worse harm.”
“As do I. Now, this fellow Porlock, I’ve had Bradstreet run down some particulars which I think you shall find interesting.”
“Well?”
“Like Moriarty, his training is in mathematics. He was a student of Weierstrass.”
“The German mathematician? The so-called ‘father of modern analysis’?”
“Never heard of him,” Watson said.
“No? Well, it’s possible many people outside his field have not. He is exceedingly well known in the world of mathematics. His papers on elliptic functions are quite remarkable...”
“Quite right, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “But perhaps it escaped your notice that Weierstrass died in February.”
“Did he, indeed? No, I was otherwise occupied in February; I did not hear. But surely the death of a tutor would not impact Porlock?”
“By all accounts Porlock viewed Weierstrass as more than a mentor; he was almost a father-figure. I have it on excellent authority that Porlock was deeply upset by the loss.
“However, Porlock’s wife is English and her mother has been unwell. It seems that for many months Mrs Porlock has been urging her husband to return to London. He would not go while Weierstrass was dying, but once the man passed on, Porlock was eventually persuaded. They returned at the end of May.”
“Ah, a man subjected to the whims of domesticity once again.”
“Oh tosh, Holmes,” Watson said. “You make it sound like a disease. Anyway, what is the old lady’s condition? Will Porlock take his family back to Germany when she dies?”
“All excellent questions, Doctor. I gather the woman has been unwell for several months and is not expected to live out the year. She occupies a room at the top of the house in Finsbury Park.
“Our friend Porlock is having some improvements done to his home near Munich so it seems very likely he means to return as soon as it is possible to do so.”
“He’s been having me followed,” I said. “At least, I assume it is he.”
“He fears you, Sherlock. He knows you defeated Moriarty, a man he thought invincible, and that makes you dangerous. I suspect he is merely keeping an eye on you in order to try to anticipate your movements. For the present, I do not believe you are in any danger.”
“How can you be so sure?” Watson asked, anticipating me.
“Because for the moment, the man must stay in London. He dare not risk anyone inquiring into his activities. If you die, there is a very real possibility he may have to flee, and whatever else you may say about him, there’s no denying he is devoted to his family.”
“Hmph,” I snorted. “You seem to have forgotten, Mycroft, the man has already made an attempt against me.”
He laughed and stretched his back. “I assure you, I forget nothing. No, my dear brother, I remember the incident quite clearly, but my interpretation of the events is a little different from your own.”
I felt, rather than heard, Watson growl.
“Well then?” I said.
“Calvini was hired to watch you, nothing more. However, he had a particular regard for Moriarty, and Colonel Moran too. No, I think his own passions got the better of him and he decided if he killed you he’d be considered a hero in his gang of cutthroats.”
“But he failed and inadvertently called attention to Porlock’s activities,” I said, following his thought. “Porlock hired the Albino to kill Calvini, not because he wanted to tie up loose ends, but because he was livid that Calvini had upset his plans. Yes, that theory holds true.”
Watson and I took a cab back to Baker Street followed, as before, by two thoroughly soaked shadows. As we trundled through London, my friend said, “What’s going to happen to Perrot, Holmes? I know that Frobisher...” he spoke softly so the cabbie would not hear, “is guilty of treason, but surely Perrot is culpable too?”
“Of course he is, Watson. He’s Canadian, remember, not French. He will be charged with treason in due course, but he’s more valuable at present as a free agent. You may be sure Mycroft will keep close watch on him. Perrot’s friendship with Summerville puts that gentleman’s into question as well.”
“Summerville commit treason? But he’s a knight of the realm.”
“Pah, some of the worst men I’ve ever known were knights of the realm. Our friend Sum
merville beats his wife. Such a man might do anything.”
15
October 15th, 1897
For the past two weeks I have divided my time between processing Derby’s trophies and keeping watch on Porlock’s house in Finsbury Park. It’s an easy matter to leave my flat by the back window - well, less easy than it was seven years ago, but I manage well enough - and so thwart my pair of watchers across the street. They have finished ‘painting’ and now pretend to fix locks they themselves have broken. I have warned Mrs Hudson that she is by no means to trust them if they come to ply their trade here. Fortunately, she is canny enough to accept my word in matters such as this without demur.
Once free of Baker Street I head to my bolt hole in Jermyn Street where I change into my costume-du-jour. This week alone, I have been a beggar, a street-sweeper, and a rag-and-bone man. When I have not been able to keep watch myself, I’ve had the Irregulars take turns. And the result of all this effort: Nothing. Well, perhaps ‘nothing’ is a slight exaggeration. A few small crumbs have been my reward.
The governess leaves the house every day at two o’clock unless the weather is particularly unpleasant. She brings the two little girls out to the park for precisely forty minutes.
The lady of the house, Mrs Porlock, seldom goes out except with her husband. I assume she is kept much occupied looking after her ailing mother.
Porlock leaves the house on Sunday mornings to escort his wife and daughters to church. I won’t even comment on the Almighty’s likely response to that evil man’s prayers. Twice he visited our new National Gallery of British Art and spent several hours examining the Pre-Raphaelites. Monday last, he escorted his wife to the opera and this week to the theatre; and on Tuesday, Thursday and Friday of both weeks he attended his private club in Piccadilly. This last is exclusive to German men and I was given short shrift when I attempted to gain entry. I managed to slip in via the kitchen dressed as a valet.