by Nick Kyme
“All of which prompted her to leave Saint Agatha’s altogether,” ventured Holmes.
“Yes, Mr Graves returned a week later and took her and the paintings with him. He said he would continue to provide for the school as we had agreed for one further month, but that we were to keep the unusual nature of Letitia Irwin’s stay a secret. I conceded to his terms. That was the day after Mrs Sidley’s suicide. I thought she had left because the incident had unsettled her. But I began to wonder… I did not dare believe it, and then I received your telegram and knew something was not right.” She looked as if she might break down, and I went to rise from my seat but Holmes kept me at bay with a sharp glare.
“She killed her, didn’t she?” Miss Blanchard went on. “Murdered poor Mrs Sidley? She was a bitter woman, but she didn’t deserve that.”
“There are few who ever do, Miss Blanchard, but you have done the right thing here,” said Holmes. “I must inform you that we have sent a telegram to an Inspector Gregson at Scotland Yard, who I imagine will be with you shortly. Please cooperate with him fully, and answer any and all questions he might have for you.”
Miss Blanchard nodded, a mild tremor having now affected her that compelled me, in defiance of Holmes’s wishes, to at the very least hold her hand in both of mine and reassure her that all would be well, and that justice would be done.
“Surely that is everything, Ho—” I began, only to find my companion had gone and the door left ajar in his wake. I turned my attention back to the headmistress. “Thank you, Miss Blanchard. I am sure this was quite the ordeal. Rest assured, Inspector Gregson is a good and honest man; he will be reasonable.”
“I did not know what else to do, Doctor. I thought no ill would come of it, but I was wrong. More than I know or care to know, I think.”
I could only manage a weak smile, for to do otherwise would be to put forward a denial that would make a liar of me. All that remained was to leave Miss Blanchard to her own conscience and the judgement of the inspector.
* * *
I found Holmes smoking outside, seemingly deep in thought.
“I hate to intrude upon your musings, Holmes, but feel I should point out that, at times, an adder has the warmer blood,” I said, after a few moments.
“I beg your pardon, Watson?” he asked, his attention only partly on me.
“Your treatment of Miss Blanchard. A tad harsh, don’t you think?”
Holmes arched an eyebrow. “It was precisely what it needed to be, Watson. I treated her no differently to any other suspect in an investigation.”
“Hardly a suspect, Holmes. A victim of circumstance, perhaps.”
“Perhaps, but an individual who contrived to conceal the full truth of matters. Her motivations, altruistic or otherwise, are of no consequence, Watson, when the withholding of a salient fact might offer a hitherto unknown clue that could result in a much more heinous perpetrator being brought to justice. Really,” said Holmes, turning to regard me with genuine, if amused bewilderment, “your myopia wherever the fairer sex is concerned is ever a cause of bafflement to me, Watson. You are nigh-on blind to any and all ills they might be responsible for, such is your high—or is it low?—regard for womankind.”
“High certainly! And I would not consider that a detriment to my character, Holmes,” I said, somewhat offended.
“Oh, Watson!” Holmes declaimed. “Far from it, for it is the very axis around which your good nature revolves. I would have it no other way, though as a consulting detective I must remain circumspect, especially where the matter of murder is concerned. I merely seek facts, Watson, and render no judgements based upon gender, or the apparent character of any individual lest it be pertinent to a case. Low or highborn, male or female, each is equally capable of the same acts of kindness and virtue, or perfidy and sin.”
“Just as well that I am here to remind you of your humanity then, Holmes,” I said, mollified somewhat.
“Indeed you do, my friend. For there is no better soul amongst man than that of Dr John Watson.”
“Very kind of you, Holmes,” said I.
“Alas that all of mankind does not share your good and moral nature, but then I fear I would lack an occupation! Time presses on, however…”
“Are we to London then, Holmes?” I asked, recognising in him the desire to be back in the metropolis.
“Indeed we are, Watson. For as much as I have enjoyed this bucolic excursion, there are matters in the city that demand our attention, and I fear there might be little time to address them before our figure in black strikes again.”
“Do you think she will, Holmes? If what transpired here at Saint Agatha’s was indeed her handiwork, and all facts point to it, then it would appear revenge is her motivation?”
“In the case of Mrs Sidley, I would say it is almost without doubt.”
“What then of the Grayson Gallery and Grigori Andropov? Vendettas also?”
“It’s possible, but inconclusive,” said Holmes. “We must first uncover who Letitia Irwin really is beneath the facade fashioned by Damian Graves.”
“Are we going to visit him again?” said I, the eagerness I felt at remonstrating with this man and unearthing the evil for which I felt sure he was responsible evident in both my tone and demeanour.
“Most assuredly, but a visit to Mayfair is not of the most pressing importance, and I doubt it will yield the answers we seek. Not yet, at least. No,” said Holmes, determinedly. “First, a short detour to see the deceased Mrs Sidley to confirm my suspicions. Then we shall deal with the matter of the true identity of Letitia Irwin and where she is to be found.”
* * *
Our visit to the morgue was brief. Upon our arrival we were met by a wizened, greyish man, who went by the name of Brewer. Indeed, his deathly pallor was such that he had much in kind, in both appearance and lack of social engagement, with the corpses in his charge. Mercifully there were few and we were quickly shown the body of Mrs Sidley, which, in spite of decomposition, confirmed all of Holmes’s suspicions concerning the use of a second rope to mask the artifice in applying the first.
Brewer said little during my companion’s cursory examination, but allowed Holmes to leave a handwritten note to be given to Inspector Gregson upon his arrival that explained our presence at Saint Agatha’s, what cause we had in visiting the morgue, and everything Holmes and I had thus far discovered.
“Though they are oft times slow and overly eager to jump to whatever conclusion best suits their narrative, we must not obfuscate the truth from the upholders of the law,” Holmes said. “For we are merely the reserves, doing our bit for order and justice. But I will not present notions and suspicions, only facts, Watson. Only facts.”
In search of which, we returned forthwith to London.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A QUESTION OF MOTIVE
We arrived at Baker Street in the evening. Whatever plans Holmes had been concocting on our way back, he seemed disinclined to inform me of them.
As Mrs Hudson prepared a light supper and I gratefully changed out of my travelling clothes, Holmes left our rooms once again on some errand. When I entered our sitting room I heard my companion conversing with someone in the street below.
I looked out of our window to see Holmes consulting with a young street urchin. It wasn’t Hobbers this time, but certainly one of Holmes’s Irregulars. Upon the conclusion of the child’s report, Holmes re-entered 221B, running up the stairs to announce that Gregson had indeed left Scotland Yard bound for Saint Agatha’s.
Despite his apparent excitement, I caught more than a note of irritation in my companion’s mood and wondered where exactly he had gone.
“I do hope the inspector is lenient with Miss Blanchard, Holmes,” I said, tucking in to the supper that Mrs Hudson had prepared.
Holmes eschewed the meal, preferring only coffee and tobacco, as was his wont.
“Really, Holmes, you should eat,” I told him, when it appeared I would get no response to my previous remark.
“Regrettably, I am not as robust as you, Holmes, and first require sustenance of the body.”
“Ever the good doctor, eh?” Holmes said.
“Someone has to look to your wellbeing, Holmes,” I replied brusquely.
He wafted away my concerns as if they too were smoke, which at least did something to part the veil that had risen up between us.
“My being is perfectly well, Watson, but it would improve greatly as soon as I am given agency towards the furtherance of solving this case! And yet…” Holmes added, agitation turning to mild melancholy, “here I stand.”
I abandoned my supper, determined to get to the bottom of my companion’s apparent malaise. “What is it that has you so vexed, Holmes? Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
“Would that you could, Watson. Would that you could,” said Holmes, slumping down in his armchair. “I’m sorry, Watson. My manner is abysmal this evening, but the matter is simple enough.”
“Then unburden yourself. What is it that the urchin told you that has affected you so?”
“Very well, Watson. As you know, the eyes and ears of my Baker Street Irregulars are everywhere. No network of spies was ever so observant or covert in my experience. As you already know I tasked Hobbers with keeping an eye on the Berkeley Square residence of Damian Graves, but what you will not be aware of is that I gave the very same duty to another of them, by name of Price. Before we left for Saint Agatha’s, I left instructions with Price to keep a regular watch around Church Row and the estate where I saw Graves not a few days ago, after your encounter with him in the Old Nichol. It was my hope that Price could prevail where I had not, and discover where Graves was headed.”
“And did he see Graves?” I asked. “Is that what has you in such a twist?”
“Quite the contrary, Watson, and that is the problem. There have been no further sightings of Graves, and no girl matching the description of our figure in black, though admittedly details were scarce.”
“You believe this is where the girl is living now?”
“It is a fair supposition. We now know she is no longer a resident at Saint Agatha’s, so it is reasonable to assume that she is in the same city as her guardian.”
“Could Graves not have been visiting Church Row on some other business?” I suggested.
“It’s possible, for there are men of power who prey upon the poor.”
“Wretches indeed,” said I.
Holmes nodded. “But what other business could he have of such a clandestine nature? Let us consider the facts.” He set down his pipe. “Letitia Irwin is an alias created by Graves to keep his ward hidden. Certainly, he is not above bribery in this regard, but has also demonstrated a desire to keep some distance between himself and this mysterious girl. To what end, we have yet to discover. Therefore it is unlikely that she is living at his Mayfair address, but I posit she is likely to be somewhere familiar, somewhere we have seen her or Graves before.”
“Our first encounter was in the gallery on Wellington Street,” said I, “but that must be over two miles from Columbia Road where Grigori Andropov was murdered.”
“It is almost three, Watson, but consider her possible motivations for returning to Wellington Street.”
I frowned, trying to recall the precise details of that night. “Her victims were dead, Holmes, so I cannot fathom…”
“I believe she returned to remove any evidence pertaining to her involvement in the crime, for it would have been impossible to do so beforehand. Furthermore, I do not believe there was more than one intended victim, but that is for later. Not expecting our presence, and outnumbered, she did the only thing she could in the circumstances and fled.”
“And a merry chase it was,” said I. “ But she could have gone anywhere after she gave us the slip.”
“Indeed she could, but what of the second location?”
“Not so much her presence as her grim handiwork.”
“Indeed. Andropov was lured into an alley before being stabbed through the heart and then mutilated. Other than the weapons used, how do the murders of the patrons of the Grayson Gallery and that of the grand duke’s late manservant differ?”
“Certainly, the gallery murders appeared more artful.”
“Ha! Very droll, Watson. But would you say it appeared planned?”
I hadn’t intended the pun, but took the compliment with good grace and replied, “Most certainly.”
“And what of the alley murder?”
“It evinced a certain low cunning. From Molly Bugle’s testimony, it would appear she baited a trap and allowed her prey to spring it.”
“Now, what about the death of Mrs Sidley? Was there artistry, however macabre, in that?”
Recent in my memory, I easily brought to mind the two ropes, the second replacing the first in order to give the impression of suicide.
“I’d say there was, Holmes, yes. A great deal of it.”
“Given time to plot and plan, to construct her artifice of murder, on each occasion our figure in black has chosen to do just that, but not in the case of Grigori Andropov. In that instance, the reaction was both instinctual and savage. Stabbed to death, then mutilated. Why?”
“Why does any poor soul kill another, Holmes?”
“Why in that exact way? A rapier thrust, a quick kill to end a threat. We already know that Mr Andropov was following her. For how long and to what end, we can only suppose.”
“But why follow her in the first place? Was she known to him?”
“I have a theory, which I believe will be borne out when we find where our quarry is currently dwelling.”
“But if your urchin has seen neither hide nor hair of Graves, how are we to find out where Letitia Irwin is living?”
“Via a combination of facts. First we must narrow the search. Do you recall the boot heel our quarry left behind on the rooftop?”
“How could I not, Holmes. A night of such drama I have rarely experienced.”
“During my experiments, I examined a substance adhering to the heel. Colloquially it is known as ‘Billysweet’, an inferior lime-based material used in the construction of housing, specifically in the Old Nichol slum. In order to accumulate the amount I discovered upon the boot heel, Letitia Irwin must have passed through the area on more than one occasion.”
“And you believe this is where she is to be found?”
“I do, indeed.”
“I see. Ingenious, Holmes. Although we cannot simply descend upon the Old Nichol and knock on every door.”
“Quite right, Watson. Which is why we must wait for the morning and a trip to the Public Record Office.”
“A byzantine establishment if ever there was one,” said I.
“Yes, but within its halls we will have our answer, a tenancy agreement or some such, for I believe Graves would not risk exposing himself and would have had Miss Irwin seek her own accommodations, albeit with his funding.”
“Could she not have fabricated another name?”
“Perhaps, though why add a further lie that complicates the initial deception when one has no reason to do so? One false identity is difficult enough to remember convincingly. In any case, we must exhaust that line of enquiry before contemplating another. We lose nothing by doing so, and if it comes to naught then shall we plan our next move.”
“I expect a long and arduous search then, Holmes.”
“As do I, so I suggest you get some rest before the morrow.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
A MATTER OF PUBLIC RECORD
I rose early the next day and arrived at the breakfast table to find a delightful repast of poached eggs and bacon, when I found a note scribbled in the hand of Sherlock Holmes:
Dear Watson,
I have made my way to
the Public Record Office, for I suspect, as you rightly pointed out yesterday evening, that our search will be both long and laborious due to the chaotic nature of this establishment. Before you join me, I would be extremely grateful if you would pay Scotland Yard a visit to find out if Inspector Gregson made my requested enquiry concerning the deceased Reginald Dunbar. Should he be yet to return from Saint Agatha’s I feel sure that he will have left a message for me with one of his constables, for Tobias Gregson can be relied upon to be both dutiful and a man of his word.
Yours, S.H.
Feeling guilty that as I had slept Sherlock Holmes was already hard at work, I quickly finished my bacon and eggs and went to hail a cab for Scotland Yard.
On the way, I remembered Dunbar as one of the unfortunate patrons of the Grayson Gallery and felt renewed purpose in my desire to assist Holmes in bringing the heinous murderer in black to justice. I did wonder, however, what significance this one victim had for my companion.
As Holmes had predicted, Inspector Gregson was still absent and although his imminent return was expected according to the desk sergeant, he had left a message for Holmes. As it was not in an envelope or even folded so as to conceal its contents, I read it without feeling I had breached the trust of either man.
Holmes,
You were right about the grand duke knowing who Dunbar was, if that’s what you were driving at the other day in the Old Nichol. Although, he knew him by a different name, Pavel Zyuganov (I asked the grand duke to spell it for me, in case it should prove pertinent), and only recognised the man from the photograph I showed him that was taken at the morgue. According to the grand duke (and I should add he seemed none too eager to elaborate), Mr Zyuganov had been in service to his family for many years as their lawyer. He left Russia for England after he retired, and evidently changed his name. I would have investigated further when I received your telegram to go to a girls’ school, of all places. I am heading there now.
Gregson
I took a hansom from Scotland Yard and was soon at the Public Record Office. I went through the Chancery Lane entrance, passed under the great stone arch that led into a courtyard, then into the PRO proper.