by Nick Kyme
Holmes flushed a vivid shade of crimson, and stooped to retrieve his hat, which he had also lost during his antics. “I do apologise, sir. I am usually much more assured with foil and sabre. Perhaps the weight? The lightness took me quite by surprise.”
Graves smiled politely, but I saw mockery in his eyes. “They are unique. Certainly not for… amateurs.”
Clearly embarrassed, Holmes nodded vigorously and made to shake the man’s hand by way of a hasty farewell. He was but an arm’s length way when he appeared to stumble, and would have fallen head over heels had Graves not reached out to catch him.
“Spasibo tovarishch,” Holmes said, taking a firm grip of Graves’s hand to steady himself.
“Pozhaluysta,” Graves replied, adding, “Well, at least your Russian is better than your fencing, Mr Holmes. I must say, you are not quite what I expected.”
“Nor, Mr Graves,” said Holmes, straightening his jacket, “are you. Good day.”
* * *
Once we were back out on Berkeley Square, I turned to Holmes and said, “Quite the disagreeable gentleman.”
“You did not warm to him then, Watson? I would not have guessed.”
“I found him particularly odious, Holmes. A most self-important fellow, and arrogant with it. What manner of man commissions his own art exhibition?”
“Not Damian Graves.”
“But he just said—”
“His hands, Watson,” said Holmes. “Calloused, yes, from use of the blade. Judging by that alone, he must be a consummate swordsman, and one doesn’t invest such wealth in antique swords without more than a passing interest in the craft. But an artist? No, he is not Ivor Lazarus. His hands were not those of a painter. Bereft of any stain or mark, nothing around the fingernails, no thickness of the skin around thumb and forefinger that would suggest hours spent with a brush. And for a man clearly so self-obsessed, he showed little to no interest in his so-called works.”
“Ah,” said I, smiling at my own ignorance, “hence the chicanery. You wanted to ingratiate yourself with the man.”
“A task made all the easier by your obvious distaste for him. His Russian was excellent. His accent was almost as flawless as my own, but not quite up to the standard of a native speaker.”
“I did wonder at that. Why did you speak in Russian to him?”
“A silver-plated samovar in the hallway, a bookcase with several volumes written in Cyrillic, one of which pertained to the Alexandrinsky Theatre in Saint Petersburg, all facts to support a theory.”
“That Graves spoke Russian.”
“Indeed. I merely needed to test it.”
“But what does it mean, Holmes?”
“An excellent question, Watson, and one to which you are charged with finding the answer,” said Holmes, as he hailed a hansom.
“I beg your pardon, Holmes?”
“To truly know a man, we must know his routines, his haunts, how he chooses to spend his time. I want you to follow him, Watson, when he leaves to go about his business. Note everything he does, everywhere he visits and whom. Be sure to leave nothing out.”
“But how shall I know when he is leaving? Am I to wait the rest of the day?”
“Oh, I fully expect him to leave his residence at any moment. Our visit was just the spur. I suggest you find a place to observe without being seen yourself, Watson. Perhaps over there, by that bench. You could get a paper. You wanted to read the news, did you not?”
I sighed, exasperated yet secretly impressed at my companion’s quickness of thought.
“And whilst I am covertly following Graves, what will you be doing, Holmes?”
Holmes gave a wolfish grin as he stepped into the hansom. “I have other matters to attend to, Watson. Not least of which I must analyse the evidence taken from the gallery. Don’t worry,” he added, clearly noting my frown. “Put some of your military training to good effect; I’m sure you’ll do admirably.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
INSALUBRIOUS PURSUITS
Holmes was right, of course. Though I waited over an hour, during which time I had thoroughly read the article concerning the arrival of the Grand Duke Konstantin, I saw Damian Graves emerge from his residence wearing a smart suit and frock coat.
He stepped into a waiting growler. As soon as it had departed, I got up from the bench from where I had kept my furtive vigil and hailed a cab of my own. As I boarded, I instructed the driver to follow; at the driver’s bafflement, I assured him that our quarry was an old friend whom I was planning on surprising once he had arrived at his destination. He seemed little the wiser for this information but acceded to my request to keep the other carriage in sight but removed enough so as not to spoil the surprise. An extra few farthings saw to his complicity, and off we went.
The manner of this careful pursuit was not without peril, for on a few occasions I feared we had lost the other carriage amongst the general morass, but each time we were able to pick up the trail again.
After a relatively short trip, I saw Graves alight at Barclay, Bevan and Co. of Lombard Street. His cab waited for him, and upon his return carried him to Cunliffe’s of Princes Street and finally Threadneedle Street and made for the Bank of England. I had watched him enter all the previous establishments but knew nothing of his business within for fear of raising his suspicions should I have been spotted. I determined, however, that the risk was worth the taking now so I might at least gain some inkling as to my quarry’s purpose. Certainly, it was unusual for a man of Graves’s status to perform such errands personally and this alone was reason enough for me to take a closer look.
I entered furtively and saw to my relief that Graves had his back to the entrance and to me. Whilst Graves saw to his finances, I watched him from above in the Bank of England’s reading room. Again, I did this with all due caution, taking care to stand as far back as possible to obscure my presence should Graves have the occasion to look up. Thankfully, he did not, and so I observed his dealings relatively unimpeded. From what I could tell, his transactions were dealt with swiftly and conducted without incident.
Suddenly there was a commotion. I turned to see smoke billowing between the reading room’s bookcases, which prompted a good deal of scrambling of patrons and general panic. Amidst a flurry of clerks and customers, I made my way to the origin of the smoke, and saw that a bank employee was pouring a pail of water onto a small fire in a wastepaper bin.
Realising there was no emergency, I looked around for Graves, and spotted him making his way out of the bank and back onto Threadneedle Street. At the door he collided with an elderly gentleman wearing a monocle, who appeared quite bewildered by all the excitement. Graves made a hurried apology, and the delay allowed me to make my way down the stairs and reach the entrance in time to see him clamber into a new cab and bellow to the driver to take him to Savile Row.
I dutifully followed on foot for about a mile before hailing another cab, the general bustle of the morning traffic enabling me to keep up with the carriage, albeit at a brisk pace. I freely admit, I began to revel a little in the subterfuge and the drama of it all. After Graves had disembarked in Savile Row, I kept a good distance from him so as to avoid alerting him unduly. He lingered at several shop windows, and I took care not to stand opposite in case he caught my reflection in the glass. We did not know each other so well that he would instantly recognise me, but one man observing another has a habit of standing out. From across the street, I saw him visit Huntsman, emerging from this establishment carrying packages. He went on to visit Henry Poole’s, and here I decided to follow inside to determine what Graves was buying. Again, this was something of a risk but Poole’s was busy that morning and in the event of Graves seeing and recognising me I decided that I would feign surprise and suggest the matter a coincidence.
Poole’s is as fine a tailoring establishment as you will find in all of London, and I will freely admit to a pang of envy that Graves could afford such bespoke attire without concern for his purse. Working my
way surreptitiously around the tables of fine garments and bolts of cloth, I found a position behind an ornate marble column from where I could observe Graves unimpeded. That was until an obnoxious gentleman began to complain loudly to the poor tailor attempting to fit him for a dinner jacket.
“I tell you, sir,” he said, most sternly, “you pricked me. See here!” he said, and showed his thumb to the tailor, who was on one knee attempting to measure the hemline. “Blood! As plain as the pin that pierced my skin, sir.”
I averted my gaze, as did the other patrons, leaving the poor tailor to apologise profusely and his customer, who was a large and overweight man, to storm off and find the man’s superior.
Evidently, Graves found the whole thing rather amusing, and carried on with his shopping, though I saw little after that and failed to discover what he had purchased. Thwarted, I could only watch him leave Poole’s and continue the chase.
After the mild excitement of Savile Row, Graves took an early dinner at St James’s Hall on Regent Street, where with what little spare money I had to hand, I ordered fish soup so I could observe the man whilst maintaining my facade. I had picked up the morning paper on my travels and hid behind it as effectively as I could. I kept my distance of course, finding a table where I could remain unnoticed and where Graves had his back to me. I also made a passable attempt at masking my voice. Sherlock Holmes is an expert in such matters and whilst my ability pales in comparison to his, I have picked up a few things here and there. Despite my best efforts, I did manage to attract the attention of a waiter, who had obviously seen me nursing my soup overlong and glared at me over wire-framed spectacles and a thinly cropped moustache.
Mercifully, Graves ate quickly, and I followed him back out onto the street, where he hailed a cab. At this point, I could only assume he had sent the other cab on some other errand or perhaps with instructions to take his purchases from Savile Row back to his house in Mayfair. Graves had climbed aboard and was on his way by the time I had even procured transport, but the streets were busy enough that I was able to see where his cab was headed and keep it in view until it stopped just outside Spitalfields Market. I instructed my driver to keep on a little further, hoping I would still be able to find Graves once I too was on foot.
A minor panic set in at first, as I could find no sign of Graves amongst the busy market and its patrons. I considered trying to find some higher vantage point with which to more easily discern him in the crowd but thought better of it. The attention that would garner would surely reveal my presence.
As luck would have it, I caught sight of him moving through the general ebb and flow. I took pains to get closer for fear of losing him again, but stayed a good few paces back in the hopes of not being spotted. Should Graves turn unexpectedly I felt certain he would see me, but there was no alternative.
I followed him through the market and on into a warren of alleyways. I knew this place as the Old Nichol, an unpleasant sinkhole of dirty tenements, a refuge for the desperate. A part of Bethnal Green and Shoreditch, I could think of fewer places as forbidding.
I pressed on, down muddy avenues, choked by pools of filthy water and refuse. As I walked, I felt the narrow lanes encroach, and through grimy windows I saw hungry eyes watching. A pall saturated the Old Nichol, but it was not the foulness of the air but something less definable, a malaise of the spirit that had infected everything, all the way down to the very brick.
Into this gloom Graves moved swiftly, and though I could not fathom what possible business he could have in this dreary hive, he went about it with purpose. I followed him through foetid alleyways and beneath mildewed terraces. Not once did he pause, or turn. He knew this place. He knew it as well as his own luxury residence in Berkeley Square and appeared at home here, in spite of the obvious incongruity of his presence.
I kept my hand on my walking stick, and my instincts alert.
I rounded a corner and emerged in a grubby square, with black brick tenements on all sides that blocked out the light. Of Graves, there was no sign. I turned back the way I had come, but the streets were unfamiliar and though I had tried to take note of every turn I had taken, I realised then that it would be no simple feat to retrace my steps.
When I looked back, Graves stood before me.
“Why, Doctor…?” said Graves, clearly searching his memory for my name.
“Watson,” I answered, my fists clenched. I did not know if Graves meant me ill, but I knew little of the man, so resolved to trust my instincts.
“Yes, Dr Watson. A nice evening for a walk, wouldn’t you say?”
“Perhaps, if the surroundings were slightly more salubrious.”
His manner was curious, almost amused, though I detected more than an undercurrent of annoyance, even anger.
“Which makes your presence here, Doctor, all the more perplexing.” Though he took no step towards me, I felt a certain threat in Graves’s tone and overall demeanour. “Why are you following me?”
“I caught sight of you in Spitalfields. I had thought you might be amenable to talking further about your antique sword collection, and was about to call out to make myself known when I saw you heading in the direction of Shoreditch… well, my curiosity got the better of me.” I had no better answer, a fact that Graves quickly seized upon.
“A flimsy story. You track me down, illegally enter my house and now follow me here,” he said. “I have been aware of your presence for some time, Dr Watson. Long before you followed me into Spitalfields, or did you think a newspaper could hide your presence so perfectly? I wondered how far you would go, and here we are. What is it you hope to learn?” He shook his head. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter. You are a faithful hound, are you not?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?” I said, mustering my indignation. “How dare you—”
“Oh no, Doctor. You are the daring one. To come here, alone, as evening creeps in. Whatever could have possessed you, I wonder?”
I was about ready to roll up my sleeves at the man’s impudence, when Graves laughed. “A jest, Doctor, only a jest. You will have no need for that stick you grip so tightly. Is there a blade secreted within the shaft? I imagine so. I have spent a great deal of time studying weapons, particularly swords, even the less noble examples such as the one you carry. I can always tell when a man is armed. But then you are no stranger to combat, are you, Doctor? What was it, the Afghan War?”
Graves was deliberately provoking me, I realised, playing on my own annoyance at being exposed as a sneak, and trying to force me into action I knew I would regret. I determined then I would not give him the satisfaction.
“You were wounded, were you not?” he said. “Your gait, it betrays a slight limp and your look, Doctor… it is colder than most. It suggests you have seen much in your life, much that perhaps disagreed with you. And your thinly veiled excitement at my armoury…” He smiled, smugly. “Only a military man would act thusly.”
I was genuinely taken aback for here was Graves, whom I had mistook for a self-absorbed dandy with entirely too much money and too little wit, displaying observational acumen that would not have been out of place coming from Sherlock Holmes. I attempted to rally, but trod cautiously.
“You are not all you claim, are you, Graves?” I said. “Yes, I was following you. I do not believe we had the truth of it back at your residence, sir. An artist?” I scoffed. “Yours are not the hands of an artist. And do not think me fooled by your false bonhomie, either. You have secrets, I think, and not just your hidden cache of swords. And I know you are not a military man, though you entertain the idea as a fancy. I met men like you in the desert, boys playing at being soldiers. They tended not to last long.”
Graves smiled, though his eyes remained cold and utterly without emotion.
“Do not follow me again,” he said in a menacing tone of voice.
“I do not respond to threats, sir!” I informed him.
Graves retreated into an alleyway, his last words shrouded by shadows.
“Is it not a threat. Goodbye, Dr Watson. I do hope we shall not see each other again.”
Another backwards step and Graves was gone, lost to the dark. After a few moments I followed but could find no further sign of him. If he was indeed a rat of this warren then he had scurried off into some place where I could not go.
Regardless of the man’s obvious lies, he was right about one thing. The hour grew late and it would be as well for me to leave the Old Nichol before the night fell in earnest.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ON THE SUBJECT OF VERMIN
By the time I reached Baker Street it was dark, and I was grateful to be met at the door by Mrs Hudson. She carried a small oil lamp in her left hand and squinted at me from behind a pair of wire-framed spectacles. I imagined she had fallen asleep and been wakened by me fumbling with my keys.
“I do apologise for the lateness of the hour, Mrs Hudson,” I said. “I’m afraid the day quite got away from me.”
When the landlady saw my shabby appearance, her eyes widened. “Oh, Dr Watson, you look positively downtrodden. When did you last have a warm meal?” she asked, hurriedly ushering me inside.
“Well I—”
“I should have thought to prepare something to warm up on your return. I must have dropped off whilst reading the paper.” Mrs Hudson looked thoughtful. “I had the oddest dreams. Quite morbid, I don’t mind telling you.” She leaned in towards me. “I was reading an article in an old copy of The Times about a suicide somewhere outside the city. A teacher, it said, a lady. Whatever could have possessed her?”
“Well, the rigours of modern life can be trying, I’m afraid, Mrs Hudson. All too often—”
“A small meal before you retire?” asked Mrs Hudson, seemingly able to flit from one subject to the next and barely pausing for breath. Had I the will and the cause, I might have tested her pulse for she appeared quite… animated, especially given the lateness of the hour. “I must insist, Doctor. You are practically wasting away!”