by Nick Kyme
“The sheer horror of it…” I remarked, and covered my mouth at the sight.
As an old campaigner, and a doctor besides, I am no stranger to death, but there was something altogether aberrant about its presence in a place such as the Grayson Gallery rather than a battlefield or hospital.
“What do you see, Watson?” asked Holmes, as seemingly unmoved by the grim scene as the portraits looking down on it.
“A sight at which my mind recoils, Holmes. It’s almost as if—”
“They were clamouring to get out,” said Holmes. “Observe the smashed champagne flutes underfoot, the general panic and disarray. Art appreciation has never been so deadly.” He paused then added, “A brisk morning, is it not, Watson.”
“I’d say so, yes.”
“And yesterday evening? Wintery, would you agree?”
“Rather bleak, I seem to recall.”
“Quite so, but bleak enough to warrant coats and scarfs indoors?”
“I’d say not, Holmes. But why the enquiry?”
“A coat rack in the corner of the room, heavily burdened,” he said, drawing my attention to it. Holmes turned to Edmund Garret. “Tell me, sir, is it usual for your guests to need outdoor attire?”
Poor Garret could scarcely take his eyes from the horror of it all to answer my companion.
“No, sir. It had been requested. The exhibition was to celebrate British Antarctic exploration, the southern continent, the pioneers and so on. The patrons were to feel the cold as they entered.”
I had read an article about a lecture given in 1893 by Dr John Murray about renewed interest in Antarctica exploration. Given the sprawl of the British Empire, the southern regions of the world were one of the last few uncharted territories, and had captured the imagination in certain quarters.
“To enhance the experience,” said Holmes.
“I assume so, sir.”
“And yet a fire has been lit,” added Holmes, gesturing to a soot-blackened hearth and chimneybreast. “Can you explain that?”
“I can, sir. We did not want the guests to catch their death.”
“So the cold was temporary,” Holmes added.
Garret nodded.
“I see,” said Holmes. “Tell me, Mr Garret, was this room locked and secured when you opened up this morning?”
“It was, sir.”
Holmes paced over to one of the victims. “This man, I assume he was a colleague of yours?”
The man in question wore a suit but was not dressed so finely as to be mistaken for one of the guests.
Here the poor assistant looked close to tears as he clapped eyes on his erstwhile colleague. “Arthur Mabbot, yes, he’s the curator.”
“Tell me, Mr Garret, where might your superior keep his keys? I note the room has no bolt and in order to access it you must have used a key of your own. Arthur Mabbot would have his own keys, would he not?”
Edmund Garret scratched his head. “He kept them in his breast pocket, sir.” Holmes checked, but found no keys. Garret frowned. “How peculiar.”
Holmes checked every one of Arthur Mabbot’s pockets but none yielded up any keys. “Watson, you have keen eyes,” he said, “do you see any keys lying about that the deceased Arthur Mabbot might have dropped or absent-mindedly discarded?”
I looked, but found none and informed Holmes of the fact. He turned his attention back to Edmund Garret.
“I put to you, Mr Garret, that Arthur Mabbot did not have his keys, and furthermore that they were used by another person, as yet unknown, to lock this room from the outside.”
“You think someone stole his keys, sir?” asked Garret.
“Precisely.”
“And trapped everyone within.”
“They knew they were going to die,” said Holmes, grimly, before producing a magnifying lens and conducting an examination of every detail of the crime scene, during which process I watched him touch, taste and sniff a variety of seemingly innocuous items that he no doubt considered vital to the case at hand. In fact, so fervent and exacting was he in his actions that when he came to a sudden and certain halt in front of one of the paintings I wondered if he had done himself some injury.
“This one, Mr Garret,” he cried, at which the assistant shuffled over.
I followed, to find Holmes enrapt by a most macabre piece; a skeletal figure, encrusted by ice, perhaps a depiction of Death itself, for many had lost their lives to the Antarctic. It struck me, as I looked closer at this and several of the other paintings, that rather than a celebration of explorative endeavour, the exhibition felt more like a warning of its perils.
“That’s the Undying Man,” Garret explained, suppressing a mild shiver. “I’ve never liked it, and like it even less now. It’s one of the grimmer pieces.”
“Frozen in death. And the artist?” asked Holmes, his gaze fixed on the painting.
“A gentleman who goes by the name of Ivor Lazarus, but I don’t know who that is, nor have I met him. Please, Mr Holmes, can you find who did this?”
“I would be delighted to, Mr Garret,” said Holmes, turning his gaze to the room’s entrance, “should Scotland Yard prove unfit for the task.”
I turned, and saw a familiar figure standing beneath the archway. When I looked back I noticed Holmes had just snapped shut his pocketknife and was returning it to his pocket. The newcomer said, “Ain’t this a right mess.”
“Inspector Gregson,” said Holmes, genially, affording the inspector a mildly deferential nod. “It is indeed a most grisly tableau.”
“I do hope you’ve not solved this one already, Holmes,” said the inspector as he approached.
“All in good time, Inspector. Perhaps you would regale us with the skilled deductions of Scotland Yard?”
I have often suspected Holmes held Tobias Gregson in some small regard, for the man was not without intelligence in spite of some of his less desirable qualities.
“Very well,” said Gregson, running his thick fingers through his fair hair. Not one to shirk from a challenge, he began to assess the scene. Most men, even those of Scotland Yard, and certainly the two police constables who now appeared behind the inspector, would pale a little at the sight of so much death and horror, but Tobias Gregson was inured to such things.
Just as Holmes had done, Gregson paced the room, inspecting the bodies, taking account of the broken glasses and even feigning interest in the odd painting. Holmes keenly observed him throughout, betraying no hint of his thoughts on his face or his demeanour, as unreadable as Horatio Nelson in Trafalgar Square.
Having finished his tour of the macabre, Gregson stopped in the middle of the room to proudly announce, “Poison, Holmes.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes, but elaborated no further. “Go on, Inspector.”
“It’s as plain as day,” Gregson replied, and gestured to one of the victims. “No wounds, collapsed in disarray, heaped atop one another like marionettes with their strings cut.” Gregson smiled, and I thought it a self-aggrandising, ugly gesture. “Am I warm, Mr Holmes?”
“Positively stifling, Inspector,” said Holmes. “And through what means?”
Gregson frowned. “I don’t follow.”
“The means, Inspector. How were they poisoned?”
“Ah,” said Gregson, “the flutes,” he pointed out the glass underfoot. “Champagne flutes.”
“Indeed, indeed. A fact to be confirmed by autopsy, of course.”
“Of course,” said Gregson.
“And what would you make of this?” asked Holmes, turning to regard the painting he had been examining before Gregson’s arrival.
Gregson appraised the piece for a few moments, before deciding, “Firewood, I expect. It’s hideous.”
I could not disagree.
Holmes smiled. “Well, I believe the inspector has matters here well in hand. I have only one further question, then we shall be on our way…”
“Oh yes, Holmes?” said Gregson, looking quietly pleased with himself.
“For Mr Garret, if he is amenable,” Holmes replied.
“If it’ll bring this terrible matter to a conclusion, I should pledge my service in any way I can, sir.”
“Nothing so dramatic. I merely wish to know who commissioned the exhibition in the first instance.”
“I fail to see how that’s relevant, Holmes,” said Gregson.
Holmes ignored him, his attention on Garret.
“It was a Mr ‘D.G.’ of Mayfair. I don’t know any particulars other than that, I’m afraid.”
“Not to worry, Mr Garret. It shall suffice. Amply so, in fact.” Holmes smiled. “Good day, sir. I have no doubt we shall be in touch again.” To Gregson he added, “Inspector. I assume you are bound for the police surgeon after you’ve gathered your evidence?”
“And I assume you’ll be joining us, Holmes?”
“Well,” said my companion, “since you asked it would be rude to refuse. Good day.”
* * *
Once we were back on Wellington Street, having passed a constable on the way out of the Grayson Gallery, I turned to my companion and asked, “D.G. of Mayfair. Are we to pay this fellow a visit then, Holmes? I can think of no other reason for your interest in him.”
“Indeed we shall,” said Holmes, stepping out onto the street to summon the nearest hansom.
“Where then, Holmes, in all of Mayfair, will we find him? I assume we shall not be going door to door?”
Holmes gave me a smile that suggested if required we would knock on every door of every Mayfair residence.
“I have eyes and ears everywhere, Watson, as well as making it my business to know whom from whom.”
“In all of London!”
Again, Holmes replied with that same smile. I do believe he enjoys mildly torturing me in this manner.
“And I also assume the painting is in some way significant,” I said, “though I cannot fathom how.”
“Perceptive as ever, Watson.”
“So has Gregson cut to the heart of it then. Poisoning?”
“Amongst his colleagues at Scotland Yard, Inspector Gregson is singular,” Holmes conceded. “A man not without intelligence, even if he is quick to grasp at the obvious.”
“So it wasn’t poison then?” I asked as the hansom pulled to a halt and Holmes and I climbed aboard.
“Baker Street, my good fellow,” Holmes shouted to the driver, and gave the ceiling of the cab a solid thump with his cane. “It was indeed poison, Watson,” said Holmes, answering my question.
I frowned, confused. “So, Gregson…”
“Was mistaken, yes.”
“Holmes, I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Alas, Watson,” said Holmes, narrowing his eyes, “I fear your state of confusion shall last a while longer yet.”
“Confound it, Holmes!” I cried. “Must you be so cryptic?”
“Only if you insist on being so obtuse, Watson,” he replied mildly.
“Very well then,” I said, deciding to admit defeat. “Are we not to Scotland Yard then?”
Holmes shook his head. “In the absence of the living, we shall look to the dead to lay the accusing finger. The Scotland Yard morgue, Watson. Inspector Gregson will have much for us to review. But first to Baker Street. I suggest you fetch your medical bag.” Holmes then shouted loudly to bring the cab to a sudden halt, at which point he sprang out and headed off down the street at a brisk pace.
“Holmes?” I called after him, leaning out of the window.
“The Scotland Yard morgue, Watson. I shall meet you there.”
“And where are you going?” I asked, having to shout.
“Eyes and ears, Watson. Eyes and ears.”
Shaking my head, I instructed the driver to avoid Regent Street, and realised Holmes had been headed in that very direction.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE MYSTERIOUS DEMISE OF REGINALD DUNBAR
By the time I had finished my errand at Baker Street and made my way to Scotland Yard, Holmes had already arrived. I found him waiting pensively in the morgue, his fingers steepled and pressed to his lips in a manner I have regularly seen him adopt when contemplating the nature of a particularly obscure problem.
So engrossed was he in thought that I had to practically announce myself before he showed any awareness of my presence.
“How long have you been down here, Holmes?” I asked, suppressing a slight shudder. I am most familiar with death, having seen all too much of it during my lifetime, but it wasn’t the sense of the morbid that caused my shiver but rather the bone-aching cold that pervaded the Scotland Yard morgue.
“Not as long as this fellow,” uttered Holmes, only half listening. He gestured to a figure lurking in the shadows, the police surgeon. I knew him as Roper. He was a portly man, and possessed little to no good humour. Not that Roper was particularly unfriendly but instead he carried a sort of blandness about him, due, I expect, to spending so much of his time with the dead. Despite his shortcomings, this was Roper’s domain and he ruled it like a jealous king, eyeing me suspiciously as if I had trespassed across his borders without permission.
“Doctor,” I said by way of perfunctory greeting. He gave me a shallow nod.
The morgue was a large but dingy space, made to appear smaller by the gloom and the fact that little outside light could penetrate through the thick frosted glass of its few windows. An air of decay was present, only partly masked by a chemical acerbity that bit at the nostrils. The tiled walls had once been white but had been turned grimy yellow by the slow attrition of years.
Gregson arrived soon after I did, his grim burdens in tow, carried by many sweating constables. It took almost an hour to ferry the dead into the morgue, which, despite being large, was soon beyond its capacity—it had only twelve slabs—and many bodies had to be laid upon the bare floor. There were thirty-seven victims in all, the majority of whom were guests, the remainder made up of Arthur Mabbot and two waiters.
With Roper and his assistants, as well as Holmes and me, there was little room to move. Gregson had dismissed his constables, but stayed behind to ask questions and have a closer look at the victims, who appeared to have no obvious connection other than a predilection for art.
“Not an easy task getting through Covent Garden with this lot. The hoi polloi are still up in arms about the grand duke,” he said as I was examining one of the victims, a man, around early fifties with a slightly Slavic cast to his features.
“We saw protestors amongst the crowds on Regent Street,” I said.
“Been keeping us busy ever since he arrived. One half of London wants to catch a glimpse of royalty, the other half wants to see it brought down a peg.” Gregson leaned in. “And by that, Dr Watson, I mean stripped of their wealth and brought down to the common man’s level. It’s given rise to several groups known to Scotland Yard who are firmly against the idea of a decadent few.” He sighed then, regarding the bodies. “Thirty-seven men and women, poisoned in an exclusive London gallery,” he said. “Somebody is trying to say something.”
“Indeed they are,” uttered Holmes, at last emerging from mental solitude, “but perhaps they are shouting it loudly so we fail to hear what is being whispered beneath.”
Gregson frowned. “As usual, Holmes, you have completely lost me.” He moved on to speak to Roper, either genuinely losing interest or tired of my companion running intellectual rings around him.
“Tell me, Watson,” said Holmes quietly. “Does this one have a name?”
Prior to autopsy, I had watched as Roper’s assistants removed the man’s clothes, and his belongings sat on a tray nearby. “He carried an engraved cigarette case,” I said. “I believe—”
“Reginald Dunbar,” said Holmes, having found the item and opened it to the engraving.
“Yes, that’s the one. What of it?”
Holmes regarded Dunbar intently, but did not elaborate. “A theory, Watson, nothing more. I would prefer to keep it to myself until it has had time to
develop.”
I was about to answer when Gregson gave a raucous bellow of delight from across the room.
“I knew it!” he said. “Poisoning. The whole sorry lot of them, I’d wager.”
“And who would bet against him,” murmured Holmes as he and I went over to join Gregson and Roper.
Holmes leaned in close to smell the dead man’s lips. “Quite right, Inspector. And the facts at hand suggest cyanide. Not for the layman,” said Holmes, with a quick glance at Roper, “discerning one poison from another. See here,” he added, gesturing to the fingers of the man’s right hand, which had curled into a hideous claw. “And note similar effects on all the victims, brought on by a sudden paroxysm. Would you concur, gentlemen?”
Roper nodded. “The stomach contents will prove it beyond any doubt,” he said in a moribund voice.
Gregson shrugged. “Poison is poison, Holmes. And death is death. It was the champagne what did it, either way. No other explanation.”
“And what of the door, Inspector? I assume you noted its condition?”
“Efforts had been made to break it down from the inside, yes, I saw it,” said Gregson. “What’s your point?”
“That escaping a poisoned champagne flute simply requires that one not drink from it.”
“Who can say what kind of panic gripped them, Holmes. Trapped within, poisoned, I suspect fear took hold.”
Holmes nodded, but I could tell he was far from satisfied. “Indeed, Inspector. ‘A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm.’”
Gregson frowned.
“Upper or lower class, Inspector,” said Holmes, “we are all but food for the worms in the end.”
“A cheery thought.”
“To go with our cheery surroundings,” Holmes replied, and then turned sharply to me. “Watson, I have seen all I need to here, and the inspector clearly has matters in hand.” He made a show of checking his pocket watch, and I felt again a sting at the loss of my own timepiece. “I have another matter to attend to.”
“Eyes and ears?” I inquired, knowingly.