Further Associates of Sherlock Holmes

by George Mann

  I finally managed to haul Watson to his feet, and saw with some pity the horrid scrapes down the side of his face, and blood oozing from his nose.

  “What now?” Watson said.

  “I suppose we must adopt your plan,” I replied. “Let us find the Magnificent Balthazar.”

  * * *

  It was not without toil that we tracked down the magician. The hour was late when finally we were admitted to a squalid Hackney flat by the man himself.

  “Balthazar” was in fact one Cecil Blaylock, an engineer’s son from Portsmouth. His stage assistant was his older sister, Alice, with whom he now shared a humble dwelling. Both Cecil and Alice still wore their greasepaint, although their costumes had been exchanged for housecoats and slippers.

  “We don’t hang about,” Blaylock said by way of explanation. “Don’t want the punters coming over, asking how it was done.”

  “What about the equipment?” Watson asked. He was in a foul mood, and had barely spoken to me as we had traipsed around town looking for the Blaylocks.

  “You mean the cabinet, and so on?” Blaylock asked. “It is all sent to storage after every show, sir. I have a cousin who works the warehouses in Pimlico.”

  Watson looked askance at me. I was certain our thoughts were aligned—a warehouse was the ideal place to keep prisoners. Or bodies.

  “Of course, once I would have afforded a larger premises of my own to store my apparatus,” Blaylock went on. “Once they spoke of me alongside Mr Maskelyne, but now I can barely fill the sixpence taverns.”

  “Mr Blaylock, I am afraid we are not here merely to discuss your show,” I said, seeing the dreamy look of the loquacious bore in his eyes. “We wish to talk to you about vanishing ladies of a different kind.”

  “Eh?”

  “There’s no need to be coy. The young attractive people who take part in your act—they are planted there by your people are they not?”

  “No, sir, they are not!” Blaylock looked indignant. “They are strangers to me, drawn from the audience. There is no trickery on my part—they inspect my apparatus for themselves and find it inscrutable. Look about you, sir. Does it look as though I have coin to spare for stooges? If you find the appearance of my volunteers comely, then it is testament to the good eye of the theatre manager. It is an old stage trick, sir, which I am sure you are familiar with— put the pretty girls and handsome lads in ready view of the rest of the clientele, and a more favourable impression of the whole show will be given. Years ago I might have picked the right volunteer from anywhere in the crowd, but alas my eyesight is failing me, and so now I must rely on the staff to seat the most eligible subjects near the front.” He tapped at the rim of his pince-nez spectacles, which he certainly had not worn on stage, to illustrate his point.

  “What if I told you that the golden-haired beauty who you made disappear tonight has been kidnapped?” I asked.

  “Kidnapped?”

  “Yes. The good doctor here received his injuries near Spitalfields. We were unable to stop the thugs who took her.”

  “Why… that’s terrible!” The shock appeared genuine. Alice Blaylock clasped her hands to her mouth and gasped theatrically.

  “A week ago, outside the Paragon in Mile End, a young lad also disappeared. He, too, had taken part in your show that night.”

  “I… Wait a minute…”

  “You may remember him. Smooth features, with long dark hair and striking blue eyes. He is the son of Sir Denis Cottingford, who is very well connected in Parliament. That is what brings me to your door, you see.”

  “You cannot possibly imagine that I—”

  “And of course, upon the trail of this strange disappearance, I also learned of a young girl named Polly, who was snatched immediately following your show in Whitechapel last month. You made her disappear that night, too. A frightful coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “I resent these accusations!” Blaylock spluttered, as his sister broke down in tears. “Who do you think you are?”

  “You know me, sir, from the newspapers, which is why you do not fear my interrogation. But it is clear that you do not recognise my associate here. This is Dr Watson. You have doubtless heard his name in connection with the late Sherlock Holmes?”

  Blaylock paled.

  “I have secured the formidable deductive powers of Dr Watson,” I continued. “They brought me here, to you. Mr Blaylock—what happened to those poor young souls? What have you done with them?”

  “I have done nothing. I swear it!” Blaylock gasped for breath.

  “If you have something to confess,” Watson said, “then say it now, or we shall be back within the hour with a Scotland Yard detective.” Watson’s glower, along with his battered features, certainly put the fear in me, never mind Blaylock.

  “I have nothing to confess!”

  “Then maybe we should talk to your cousin in Pimlico.”

  “Why? He has nothing to do with it.”

  “To do with what?” Watson growled.

  “I… I… oh.” The man took a deep breath. “I swear I have nothing to do with kidnapping. The only thing I can think is that a certain patron—a private patron—might know something.”

  “Speak plainly, man,” I said. “Who is this patron? Why do you suspect him?”

  “I don’t… I mean, not until now. He comes to my shows maybe a few times each year. Each time he provides some of his servants to help with the act—getting the disappeared volunteers from backstage into his private box, y’see. He insists on seeing the act close up, and throws a little extra my way for the privilege.”

  “He occupies the box in which the volunteer miraculously reappears?”

  “He does.”

  “He was there tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “And his men were backstage, with ready access to the girl?”

  Blaylock nodded as an awful truth dawned on him.

  “I suspect the girl was drugged,” I said to Watson. “It would appear that someone slipped her something during her time backstage.”

  “The man’s name,” Watson said to Blaylock. “A girl’s life may depend on it.”

  “I never spoke to him direct, sir. His men call him Sir Algernon Dinmont. But that’s not his real name. I don’t know his real name.”

  “Then how do you know he’s using an alias?” Watson asked.

  “I am not a fool, Doctor. I have spoken with the theatre managers who secure the boxes for Sir Algernon. With them he goes by Monmouth. I looked him up, in the book of peerage. I read a lot, you see. There is no Sir Algernon Dinmont, and all the Monmouths I could find are dukes or earls, and I thought if he’d lie to me, he’d as likely lie to the managers, wouldn’t he? I didn’t care, long as the money came. Oh, God, have I done wrong?”

  “That remains to be seen,” I said. “For now, I want you to say nothing of this conversation should you have any contact with Sir Algernon’s men. Do you understand?”

  He nodded.

  “We are done here for now.”

  “Pike, I don’t think—” Watson began.

  “No, Watson,” I said. “We have all we need.”

  I managed at last to usher Watson from the flat, leaving a devastated magician and his sister in our wake.

  “What do you know?” Watson pressed as we returned to our cab.

  “I know the identity of Algernon Dinmont,” I replied.

  “How?”

  “I know every secret of note within the upper echelons of society. Blaylock may have guessed that Dinmont was an alias, but not the real reason behind adopting it. The man behind the name is far more important than his title would suggest—we must tread carefully.”

  “Title matters not,” said Watson. “We should root out this villainy and strike while the iron is hot. I can call upon Inspector Lestrade, and—”

  “No, Watson, we cannot rely on the police in this matter, believe me. I will not tell you what I know, not yet, because you are like to run off hal
f-cocked and get us both into terrible trouble, and this poor girl harmed in the process. No—you shall go home to your wife, and tend to your injuries. Be ready in the morning, for we shall go to confront our man, refreshed and prepared.”

  * * *

  “Now will you tell me where we’re going?” Watson demanded.

  The carriage had rattled towards the city limits, until the open space of Bexley stretched before us. In that time, I had said nothing to Watson about our objective, for I had no idea what his reaction might be.

  “We are travelling to the estate of Lord Percy Montagu.” I said.

  “The high court judge?” Watson looked aghast.

  “The name ‘Monmouth’ is often used by The Gazette in place of several of society’s great luminaries—Montagu chief amongst them. What most common folk may not know is that Lord Montagu is a fancier of terriers—specifically, a small breed of dog called a ‘Dandie Dinmont’. Indeed, in chambers as in his club, Montagu is known as Dandie, a nickname not altogether undeserved.”

  “It sounds convincing, I’ll grant you,” said Watson. “But it is thin grounds to put ourselves on the wrong side of a law lord.”

  “True enough. But think back to those thugs we encountered last night. Far too well-dressed to be common rabble. When they made their escape, it was in a liveried carriage. I could not make out the heraldry, but it gleamed gold. I am not as expert on the peerage as Mr Blaylock, but I do know that the coat of arms of Lord Montagu prominently features two golden griffons. We can only hope we will be granted an audience; you look dreadful, Watson, like you’ve been brawling in the streets.”

  Watson shot me a glare, and then sat back in his seat. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Pike.”

  We were greeted at the door of Lord Montagu’s palatial estate by a pack of diminutive, tuft-headed terriers, which yapped at us relentlessly until the butler ushered us into a vast reception room.

  We waited there for some minutes, before Lord Montagu or, more correctly, the Earl of Torrington, appeared. He was a large man, wrinkled of features and prodigious of girth. He was pushed into the room in an invalid chair by his valet—a valet who sported a graze upon his chin.

  “Pike, you rogue!” Lord Montagu exclaimed. “I should have you horse-whipped after that snippet in The Gazette last October.”

  “Lord Montagu.” I bowed. “It has been too long. And to which snippet do you refer? My sources always provide anonymous scandals—if you would be willing to put your name to one, I imagine my readers would simply faint with excitement.”

  The old man barked a laugh. “Incorrigible as ever! What brings you to my door?”

  “Among other things, I came to invite you to a soirée. I hope you are not housebound?”

  “Gout, damn it. Never you worry, Pike, it’ll take more than that to put me down. Came here in person to invite me to a party, eh? Must be more to it than that.”

  “My lord is most astute,” I replied. I noted Watson’s dumbfounded expression at my familiarity with the earl, and took pleasure in it. “I come here with my learned colleague, Dr Watson, to seek that most vulgar of things.”

  “What, marriage?” Lord Montagu laughed again.

  “Alas, Lord Montagu, I have already taken those vows, though for what reason puzzles me to this very day. No, I speak of patronage.”

  “Patronage? You strapped for cash, Pike? Surely you haven’t been frittering away your fortune at the gaming tables?” He wheeled himself a little closer. “Or is it your other… appetites?” He winked, and I masked my nausea with all the skill of an experienced thespian.

  “Not at all. It is not money I want for, but influence in the right channels.”

  “Go on.”

  “This is the same Dr Watson who formerly associated with Mr Sherlock Holmes. I imagine a man in your line of work would have run into Holmes more than once.”

  “I did. He sent a goodly number of crooks through my dock.”

  “It is not common knowledge that I was a friend to Holmes. I was rather hoping to pick up where he left off, and accompany Dr Watson once more into the detective business.”

  “You wish to become a consulting detective? You? Ha!” he laughed again.

  “For once I am entirely earnest,” I said. “But of course, what many people do not know is that Holmes was vouched for by his brother, Mycroft, and thus given certain freedoms within the legal system that I myself cannot command.”

  “Mycroft, eh? An odious toad.” Lord Montagu fixed me with a withering gaze. “And you would not have some ulterior motive for placing yourself above the law, Pike? Not in any trouble yourself?”

  “You wound me, Lord Montagu. Why, we have already run afoul of a group of criminals as a result of our amateur sleuthing. Sherlock Holmes could call upon any police constable in London without fear of refusal. I only ask for a similar privilege, and I am certain your influence could secure it.”

  “And what were you investigating to get yourselves in such a pickle?”

  “A series of kidnappings, culminating in the taking of a young girl last night in the East End.”

  “Young girls go missing in the East End all the time.”

  “Ah, but this one is a real mystery. Several victims, all taken within hours of attending a magic show. And by a gentleman, no less.”

  “A gentleman? What makes you so sure of that?”

  “The men with whom Watson here had his altercation were almost certainly household servants. The carriage in which the victim was abducted was a private one. You see, Lord Montagu, if this matter becomes one of extreme delicacy, it would be useful to have the backing of an influential man such as yourself.”

  The earl held my gaze for a moment, with the same hard stare from beneath his bushy eyebrows that I imagine he reserved for the condemned men in his dock.

  “I am not by nature a charitable man,” he said at last. “But our association stretches back some years. Send me a business proposal through more official channels and I’ll think on it.”

  “I can ask no more, Lord Montagu. You are too kind to give us your time.”

  We turned to leave, and I realised I had made a misstep when Lord Montagu cleared his throat and spoke again.

  “This soirée, Pike. When and where?”

  “Ah, yes, I almost forgot. Next month, at Apsley House,” I lied. “I’ll have a messenger send the details along with the proposal.”

  “Apsley, eh?”

  “You know me, Lord Montagu. Only the best is good enough.”

  “Yes, Pike, I know you well. Too well.”

  The butler appeared to escort us out. I paused and turned again to Lord Montagu.

  “I have only just realised, Lord Montagu. Your taxidermy—there is none on display. When last I visited this room was resplendent with exotic birds, was it not?”

  “It was.”

  “I trust your collection is still intact. Some say it is the finest in Europe.”

  “Not any more. Sold it, y’see. Grew bored of it. I find my pleasures elsewhere these days.”

  “Then you must have found a great diversion indeed.”

  “Oh, indeed I have, Pike. Now, I must bid you good day.”

  And with that, we left the invalided earl and returned to our carriage.

  “What on earth was that about?” Watson asked as we set off. “If he’s guilty of these crimes you’ve put the cat amongst the pigeons.”

  “I certainly hope he’s guilty,” I remarked, “otherwise I have a function at Apsley House to organise, and very little time to do it.”

  I rapped on the roof of the carriage and called to the driver.

  “As we turn the next bend, slow so that we may depart, and then carry on to the gate. Wait for us at the allotted place. If we do not return in an hour, go directly to Scotland Yard and deliver the letter I gave you.”

  The driver did as he was bid, and once out of sight of the house I alighted from the carriage, leaving Watson no choice but to follow.<
br />
  “As you said, Watson,” I explained, “the cat is now amongst the pigeons. We must see if any of them take flight.”

  We trod carefully through the small copses that lined the long drive, until we found a secreted location at the end of a large rose garden, affording us a good view of the house and grounds. My suspicions were proven correct almost immediately, when Lord Montagu’s valet left the house in a great hurry, and shouted directions to several servants, before setting off on foot across the grounds carrying a lantern.

  “Hullo, where is he going?” Watson whispered. “And why does he have a lantern in broad daylight?”

  “We must follow him, but have your wits about you, Watson—I am certain he is the man with whom you tangled last night.”

  “I have more than my wits about me,” Watson replied, and revealed a revolver in the pocket of his overcoat.

  “Full of surprises! Let’s hurry, before he gets out of sight.”

  We followed the man through a grand orchard, past a large orangery, and through an ornamental garden, until finally we saw the man descend into a hollow, whereupon he entered a tumbledown folly.

  “Aren’t these things normally facades?” Watson asked.

  “Yes, but he must have gone somewhere. Come, we must get closer.”

  We stumbled down into the hollow, until we reached the rough-hewn walls of the folly. The door through which the valet had entered was made in the semblance of a castle entrance. Ivy clung to the stones around it, climbing up a cylindrical tower, open at the top in the style of a ruin. Even as we paused near the door, sounds reached our ears—a muffled, angry male voice, almost drowned out by moans and pitiful wailing.

  “An underground chamber?” Watson whispered.

  “With prisoners,” I replied.

  Watson and I shrank back as the door swung open and the valet reappeared. The man seemed to sense my presence, and stopped dead. In a trice, Watson stepped up and hit him hard on the back of the head with the butt of the revolver. The valet fell in a heap.

  “Watson! We needed to question him,” I said.

  “Time for that later. If there are prisoners down there, we can ask them our questions.”