Sherlock Holmes--The Legacy of Deeds

by Nick Kyme

  “I believe I read something of the sort in a journal. What is the relevance?”

  Holmes turned to face me. “I have made a study of it and believe, however unorthodox, that it might be of some use to us in this case.”

  I leaned forward, intrigued. “How so?”

  “I should like to hypnotise you, Watson.”

  “I beg your pardon, Holmes?”

  “I would not do so without your permission, and I can assure you the process is both completely harmless and you will, in time, remember everything that occurs. I believe it will also allow you to remember your encounter on Regent Street with greater clarity.”

  “You feel there is some clue hidden in my memory?”

  “I do, Watson.”

  I leaned back in my chair again, not entirely at ease with this turn of events, but I trusted Holmes implicitly.

  “Very well,” I said. “What must be done?”

  Holmes smiled and described the precise nature of how he planned to hypnotise me. I shall not elaborate on the technique here for fear that there may be those who would put it to nefarious use. Suffice to say that with a few softly spoken phrases and the metronomic swinging of his pocket watch, Holmes did indeed hypnotise me, the effects of which were momentary but profound.

  Once again I was in Regent Street, the crowd flowing around me. I saw Holmes up ahead, driven and purposeful, urging me to follow. Muted shouts came from the gathered throng, but were little more than a susurrus of indistinct voices. What I saw through my mind’s eye appeared vague too and feathered at the edges, as if I were looking through a dirty lens.

  I saw the young woman, fear and determination written on her face. I wanted to reach for her, to seize the hand that would steal my watch, but I had no will to exert. I merely observed, a prisoner of my own memories. Then came the man and our confrontation played out as it had before. Then I discerned Holmes’s voice, not from Regent Street but as if from above. And a brief darkness followed, accompanied by a sensation of rising.

  When I woke I was standing by our window.

  “Was it a success?” I asked, not knowing then what I had revealed.

  Holmes nodded. “Indeed it was, Watson. Indeed it was.”

  “And so what did you learn?”

  “A great many details, mostly superfluous, but one fact that quite caught my interest. About that rough fellow who was after your thief.”

  “Well then I beg of you, Holmes, avail me of it for I can sit in ignorance no longer.”

  “A word, innocuous enough. Sabaka.”

  Now my companion had said it aloud, I recalled uttering it myself.

  “What does it mean?” I asked.

  “It’s Russian,” said Holmes, his expression pleased yet pensive, “and it means ‘dog’. He was insulting you, Watson, but in his native tongue.”

  “Remarkable, Holmes,” I said, impressed. “Do you not think it feels a tad more than just coincidence that all of this was going on at the same time as a Russian grand duke was at large in Regent Street?”

  “Indeed,” Holmes replied, “but then I have never believed in coincidence, Watson.”

  “What does it all mean?”

  “That, Watson, is the truth we seek. Thank you, old friend, for your indulgence.”

  “I am pleased I could be of assistance. I fear, however, this is where my usefulness shall end, at least for this evening.”

  “Then I bid you goodnight, Watson. I think I shall stay up a while and ruminate on the day and night’s events.”

  “As you wish, Holmes,” I said. “Goodnight.” He had lit his pipe, and the smoke had begun to curl around him viperously as he gave a curt, absent-minded wave. Framed by the lambent glow of the fire, the shadows crawled across his eyes as he stared into the darkened room. I feared he might seek stronger stimulation than tobacco to loosen his thoughts, though I had not seen him use cocaine in several weeks, and the Morocco leather case was not to hand.

  With little else for it, I turned in for the night, determined to face whatever the next day brought refreshed and revitalised.

  I slept fitfully, my mind plagued by rain-lashed streets and the mysterious figure in black. I can only compare the acrobatic spectacle I had witnessed to the time I saw the high wire and trapeze act of the Barnum & Bailey’s Circus at the Olympia. Such dexterity, physical strength and supreme confidence had been a marvel to behold. What I had witnessed in a dreary London night was no less impressive. We must be dealing with a singular individual. This, in itself, would suggest our list of suspects was small, yet we had little more than a chance encounter and whatever Holmes could make of the evidence collected.

  I wondered again whether it was Graves beneath the hood. I clearly remembered the figure reacting when I had addressed them as Damian Graves. A connection, certainly, but nothing conclusive.

  These thoughts tumbled through my mind, but not for long as fatigue claimed me and I fell into a merciful sleep.

  * * *

  I was rudely awoken by a sharp exclamation of delight that had emanated from the sitting room. Dragging on my dressing gown and slippers, and feeling a profound sense of déjà vu, I emerged bleary-eyed to find Holmes dressed, his shirtsleeves rolled up and at his chemistry bench. I also noticed the Morocco leather case on the arm of Holmes’s chair and fought back a scowl.

  “I thought we had seen the end of that, Holmes,” I said, my tone chastening.

  “A necessary evil, Doctor. Surely you would not begrudge me if it brings us closer to a solution?” answered Holmes, his back to me. “In any event, Watson,” he added, quite ebullient as he beckoned me over, “your timing is, as ever, impeccable. Observe.”

  Deciding there was no reasoning with him, I joined Holmes at the chemistry bench. To my mild disgust, I noticed he had another rat, this time alive, imprisoned inside what appeared to be a hermetically sealed bell jar. Around it, Holmes had assembled a bewildering array of complex chemical apparatus, though my eye was drawn to the length of rubber tubing connecting the bell jar to a chemical flask, the base of which was being exposed to a gentle flame.

  “What’s in the flask, Holmes?” I asked.

  “Hydrogen cyanide,” said Holmes, as if he’d just commented on the inclement London weather.

  “Good lord, Holmes!” I recoiled, instinctively covering my nose and mouth, though had my companion made any miscalculation in securing his apparatus then we would both be dead in moments, irrespective of my efforts.

  “It’s perfectly safe, Watson,” he said, his gaze fixed on the rodent. In less than a minute of being exposed to the fumes, the poor creature collapsed, dead.

  “Perfectly horrendous, Holmes. What was it you were burning?”

  “Not burning, warming. Do you remember the painting from yesterday evening, how there was another image beneath the one of the so-called Undying Man?”

  “Of course.”

  “In sufficient quantity, ground into a powder and exposed to the appropriate temperature, the flakes I took from the painting give off lethal hydrogen cyanide gas.”

  “And with the chimney blocked by wool…” I began.

  “A gas chamber, much as you described, Watson. This here is but a small amount, though a large enough sample to test on our verminous friend inside the bell jar. A much larger quantity would have been needed to gas an entire room. I suspect all of the Lazarus paintings were poisoned thusly or perhaps the firewood in the hearth was tainted. Whilst a rodent will expire in under a minute, I estimate that a greater concentration of the gas, in a room the size of the exhibition hall and when introduced gradually into the air, would kill a grown man or woman after an hour of exposure.”

  “So, the poison was in the painting then,” I said.

  Holmes nodded.

  “And the temperature of the room…” I continued, Holmes allowing the indulgence of my deduction, “had been raised to initiate the chemical reaction.” I smiled ruefully at the devilishness of it all. “The wilted flowers, the bla
ckened lamps. The fire in the hearth.”

  Again Holmes nodded, his eyes alight with a fervour that burned away all doubt. “Our artist, whoever they are, for I think we can both agree that Graves is not he or she, mixed a powdered concoction of the poison in with their paint and kept it at a sufficiently low temperature so as to remain inert until the exhibition. The cold would have assisted here. Seemingly innocuous, the murder weapon in plain sight and so grotesque a study as to be gratefully ignored by most.”

  “It explains the commotion within. It must have been quite the panic. Those poor souls. Quite devious, Holmes.”

  “And even deadlier, Watson. It also had a message to impart, the exact nature of which eludes me for now, but I have an idea as to where and when it shall be revealed.”

  “A message?”

  “Yes,” said Holmes, lighting the shag tobacco in the bowl of his briar pipe.

  “For whom?” I asked. “All the patrons were dead.”

  “Not for the patrons, Watson. Torture and penance, remember. A warning,” said Holmes, exhaling a perfectly round smoke ring. He peered through the slowly dissipating circle, as if an answer lay within. “The truth of it is close, Watson,” he said, seemingly distracted, “but there is more afoot than we, at this present stage of the investigation, know.”

  “It’s really rather forbidding, when you think about it.”

  An insistent hammering at the street door arrested any further discussion, but had Holmes sweeping across the room to burst out onto the landing to investigate who had come calling. I heard Mrs Hudson making a remark about my companion’s excitable nature, to which Holmes insisted she just answer the door to end the “infernal knocking”.

  I joined Holmes on the landing, as much out of a need to referee whatever followed as curiosity, so was there to see Mrs Hudson open the door to Inspector Gregson. After bidding the inspector a good morning, Mrs Hudson invited him in. Gregson gave a polite nod, before his gaze swept up the stairs to where Holmes and I were standing.

  For a fleeting moment I considered the fact that Gregson might have somehow gotten wind of our visit to the gallery in the dead of night, and had come to arrest us for trespass and vandalism, but it was nothing of the sort.

  “Good morning, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson.”

  Holmes smiled thinly, while I acknowledged Gregson with a nod.

  “My apologies for visiting unannounced,” he went on, “but a delicate matter has arisen, one suited to your unique talents.” He removed his hat as a gesture of humility. “Scotland Yard is in need of your assistance, Mr Holmes.”

  Holmes blew out a plume of grey smoke, his mood insouciant. “In what matter, Inspector?”

  “Yours and the good doctor’s presence has been requested,” said Gregson, declining to answer the question.

  “By whom?” asked Holmes.

  “If you would just accompany me, sirs, I should be most grateful,” said Gregson.

  “Most intriguing,” I said, to which Holmes scoffed and disappeared back into our rooms to fetch his hat and coat.

  “Come along, Watson,” he bellowed from within, “let us not keep the inspector waiting. If his lips were to get any tighter I suspect he might never be able to open them again.”

  * * *

  For the second time in as many days, I dressed swiftly and met Holmes downstairs where Gregson had a hansom cab waiting to take us to our destination.

  “So, tell me, Inspector,” Holmes began, sitting opposite Gregson with me at his side, “what possible business could the grand duke have that requires my immediate attention?”

  Gregson leaned forwards in his seat. “I never said it was anything to do with the Grand Duke.”

  “And yet you don’t deny it, either?”

  Gregson leaned back.

  “You have an aroma, Inspector,” said Holmes.

  “I beg your pardon, Holmes,” said Gregson, offended.

  “No, Inspector, not of the unwashed but rather of birch oil and leather. It is quite distinctive.” Holmes leaned out of the cab a little. “We are currently headed east and soon north, I think, on to Regent’s Park. Given your man’s urgency in applying the lash, and since Regent’s Park is only a relatively short distance away, I suspect our guest is unaccustomed to being made to wait. Yesterday morning, a certain grand duke visited Regent Street where he procured a gift for his son. The close proximity of Regent Street to the Langham, combined with the fact that it is the most likely abode for a visiting foreign dignitary, would more than strongly suggest that this is where the Grand Duke Konstantin is staying. All of which, considered alongside the fact that the scent of birch oil and leather are synonymous with the Russian nobility, leads me to the conclusion that you have already met with the grand duke and have been sent to request our presence. Did you follow all of that, Inspector?”

  Gregson muttered something and looked away out of the window.

  “Well done, Holmes,” I said, though Holmes waved away any praise.

  “A mere trifle, Watson. What is more perplexing is Inspector Gregson’s steadfast silence on the matter, as well as his misguided belief it would keep me from the truth, not to mention why the subterfuge in the first place?”

  “What reason would the grand duke have to request your presence, though, Holmes? It won’t be your first meeting with royalty, but even so, it’s intriguing.”

  “Murder, Watson. It can be nothing other,” said Holmes, pausing to regard Gregson, who kept up his stony demeanour.

  Holmes went on, “I briefly considered a different scandal, a kidnapping, perhaps a theft, but such matters would have been handled by the grand duke’s entourage—I expect he has brought several resourceful men with him across the Baltic. Indeed, the lack of constables at our door, the fact it was only Gregson, here, is evidence of the fact in itself. The deed has already been done, and there is little restitution for it other than to seek justice against the perpetrator. What else could be it be but murder?” Holmes briefly glanced again at Gregson. “The question is, whose?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A ROYAL ENGAGEMENT

  A prestigious establishment, and the largest hotel in all of London, our investigations had taken us to the Langham before, admittedly somewhat tangentially. At the door to the hotel, Holmes noticed two of the grand duke’s men. They were wearing tweed suits, no doubt purchased from Savile Row, but from their uncomfortable demeanour—tugging at stiff collars—and the fact their boots looked to be of foreign origin, I hazarded a guess that these men were not residents of London, or even Britain for that matter.

  They watched us closely, even Inspector Gregson, who did not so much as favour them with a look, although I believe he must have known who the men were. I saw no officers of the Metropolitan force. It seemed Scotland Yard’s presence in this matter was strictly limited to Tobias Gregson.

  After several flights of stairs, which saw the ache in my leg flare up anew, we arrived at the grand duke’s luxurious accommodations. Much like the lobby of the hotel, the door to the grand duke’s suite was guarded by two men, both severe-looking fellows who eyed all three of us closely as we approached.

  Gregson took the lead, introducing himself and telling the men he had brought Sherlock Holmes as per the grand duke’s request. To this, one of the men nodded and silently entered the suite, closing the door behind him while the other man maintained his steely vigil.

  After a few moments, the first man returned, declaring that Holmes and I would be granted an audience but that Gregson must wait outside. I thought for a moment that the inspector might object. Certainly, he looked more than a little perturbed at his exclusion, but from his dignified capitulation in this matter, I got the distinct impression he had already attempted to reason with such men and reached nothing but an impasse. Holmes favoured Gregson with a glance and, I suspect, a quick smile, before we followed the first man into the suite and left the inspector outside.

  Decadent would hardly do the rooms justice, for they w
ere luxurious in the extreme and, I would happily wager, the very best the Langham had to offer. They even put Damian Graves’s opulent mansion to shame, and I took some cheap but cathartic pleasure in that thought.

  After passing through a lavish hallway, we came upon a study where a man sat in a leather chair facing a fine mahogany desk, looking out of a large window onto London below.

  “Such a drab and dirty place, your London…” he muttered, his back to us. Grand Duke Konstantin was a broad-shouldered man with light brown hair, well-groomed, and in a pearl-white suit with embroidered gold cuffs. His boots were black, knee-length and polished to a sheen that would have even satisfied my former sergeant major.

  “The endless scurrying, here and there,” he said, swaying his arms back and forth for emphasis, “like little rats, as your factories fill the air with shadows. Such industry, you British. Your proud empire.” He gave a short laugh, as if concluding a private monologue, before turning to us.

  “You are very welcome,” he said, standing, and I saw he was tall as well as broad-shouldered, his smile wide but his eyes narrow as he got the measure of us. I did not dislike him, but was immediately wary. “Gentlemen, there is no need to be so reserved, you are not at Buckingham Palace,” he added, with a laugh intended to disarm us.

  We followed our host into a grand sitting room, and he dismissed his man, no doubt to join his colleague and Gregson in the corridor. I imagined the inspector was fairly unhappy about his exclusion from affairs, but the grand duke’s sturdy custodians did not look in any mood to disobey orders. Both men had appeared tense, and I wondered then if the grand duke’s bracing good humour was intended to mask his own anxiety.

  A trio of finely upholstered Chesterfields flanked a broad but low mahogany table in the sitting room. The grand duke smiled warmly and beckoned for us to sit down.

  “So, you must be Sherlock Holmes,” he said, looking piercingly at my companion. “The inspector tells me you are the greatest detective in all of London, perhaps even England.”