Sherlock Holmes--The Devil's Dust

by James Lovegrove

  “For several days thereafter, Macumazahn brooded and pined. I remained his house guest, as did Sir Henry and Captain Good, and together we did our best to ease his troubled soul and keep him from falling into despondency. More than once he partook of Taduki, so as to lose himself for a while in hallucinatory dreams, about which I was none too happy. Misery is better confronted than avoided. Yet a man must mourn as a man must mourn, each in his own way. He must be permitted to deal with his grief however he wishes, whether by indulging in solitary rumination or in public lamentation or indeed in the torpor of drugs. No one else may dictate for him his course through the dark forest to the brighter uplands beyond. Thus it had been for me when my Nada died, and thus it was for Macumazahn now.

  “Then one morning Macumazahn came to me and asked me to tell him again all I knew about how Harry had met his end. He said to spare no detail. I did as I was bid, and Macumazahn listened, and his next enquiry was, ‘The town was Silasville, is that correct?’ I replied that that was the very name of the place.

  “‘Silasville,’ said he, ‘exists only to house those who work at the gold mine beside which it has arisen.’

  “For a moment I wondered whether Macumazahn was making some declaration of intent. Would he wreak vengeance against an entire town? Raze it to the ground in a fit of fury? I would not have put it past him.

  “‘I have read about it in the newspapers,’ he said. ‘I get copies of The Natal Witness sent to me regularly from Pietermaritzburg, so that I may keep abreast of current events in the continent I consider my spiritual home. Silasville is infamous for the level of strife and discontent amongst the miners there, which exceeds that to be found at almost any other mine. I understand that the management have instigated a crackdown on the workforce several times, in response to protests about working conditions and safety concerns. On occasion, the crackdowns have been fairly brutal. There have even been reports of miners being killed during these violent suppressions. The workforce is predominantly black, while those charged with overseeing them and keeping them in line are exclusively white.’

  “‘So it goes, Macumazahn,’ said I. ‘All across Africa, that is the pattern. The white man regards the black man as slave. Sometimes the black man is slave. In either case, the black man’s life is considered secondary to the white man’s, as a thing that may be disposed of without regret or consequence.’

  “‘That I denounce as one of the true evils of colonialism,’ said Macumazahn. ‘I could not defend it even if I wanted to. At Silasville, however, the level of disregard for the black man’s welfare is egregious even by African standards. What can you tell me of the circumstances by which Harry came to be there?’

  “I was unclear on those. All I knew was what I had learned from the bearer whom I had encountered in the town. Three days before I arrived there myself, Harry with his half of the caravan had pitched camp on Silasville’s outskirts. Harry then went into the town to buy victuals and other necessities. When, after a night and a day had passed, he failed to return, some members of the caravan went in search of him. It was then that they learned of his death. Straight away, the majority of them took to their heels. They struck camp and scattered in all directions. They were terrified that somehow they might be held accountable for Harry’s demise and that the wrath of Macumazahn might be visited upon them – although, despite their terror, they retained the presence of mind to take the wagons, horses, oxen and other appurtenances of the caravan with them. The bearer alone remained. He was made of sterner stuff and showed his moral fibre by trying to find out more about the death, albeit without success. He was met with only stony silence from the denizens of Silasville, as well as the odd gruff rebuke and even a threat or two. He had, in fact, been on the point of leaving when I appeared, and was gone by the time I rode out with Harry’s body. I did not see him again.

  “‘Given the timings,’ said Macumazahn, ‘whatever struck Harry down whilst he was in Silasville cannot have been any disease. No disease scourges a man so utterly that he lies dead within twenty-four hours.’”

  “Such is the conclusion I was coming to,” said Holmes. “Were there any marks upon the body suggestive of violence?”

  “Macumazahn asked much the same thing,” said Umslopogaas. “Regrettably, I cannot say either yes or no. I did not look any too closely at the body. It had begun to moulder, as I told you. The skin had discoloured, becoming mottled like the back of a frog, and there were the first signs of bloating. A certain slight malodorousness, too. I am sorry if these descriptions unsettle you, sirs.”

  “They do not,” I said. “I have encountered death in its many forms, as has Holmes. We are inured.”

  “Harry did not look to have died peacefully, that much is for sure. Even at rest, a body displays evidence of any torment it may have suffered in its final throes. His posture was that of someone who has been wracked by contortions.”

  “That does not rule out violence,” said Holmes, “but it does seem to suggest some other agency.”

  “Macumazahn, for his part, was unconvinced that Harry’s death was of innocent origin. The day after the conversation I have just recounted, he announced that he was leaving for London to delve into the matter further. Sir Henry and Captain Good offered to accompany him, but he turned them down. Their error was to let Macumazahn think he had a choice in the decision. I simply walked out of the house with him. I climbed into his carriage with him. I entered the train station with him. He could see by then that he was not going to get rid of me, and so he set aside any objections and consented to having my presence by his side.

  “We were borne south by the train, and here in the capital we have resided for eight days and nights now. In that time Macumazahn has sallied forth on numerous occasions, decreeing that I should stay put in this covert camp of ours and ‘hold the fort’. His searchings have led him far and wide across the city and seen him rummage around in certain quarters where he believes useful information might lurk. I liken it to the practice of disturbing the jungle undergrowth so as to cause alarm and see what emerges.

  “By such a process was he brought into the purlieu of a man called Inigo Niemand. Any more than that, however, I am forbidden to divulge.” Umslopogaas’s shoulders sloped apologetically. “Macumazahn has confided in me but has told me in the strictest possible terms not to share those confidences. Mayhap I have already been more forthcoming than I should.”

  No amount of coaxing and cajoling on Holmes’s part could tease anything further from the Zulu. He remained resolutely tight-lipped.

  Conceding defeat, we took our leave, but not before Holmes had made it clear to Umslopogaas that he and Quatermain had not seen the last of us.

  “I look forward to renewing our acquaintance,” was Umslopogaas’s equable reply. “Goodnight to you both, good sirs.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE SKELETON KEY THAT UNLOCKS MANY A DOOR

  On our way back to Baker Street I remarked to Holmes, “At least we know now why Quatermain is involved in this affair.”

  “And why he is pursuing it so vigorously,” said Holmes. “Obsessively, even. He has a personal stake. He believes something occurred at Silasville which impinged directly – lethally – upon his son.”

  “Is he misguided in that belief?”

  “On the scant evidence available at present, I cannot make a definitive determination. However, the balance of probabilities suggests he is not.”

  Upon arriving home, Holmes skipped up the seventeen steps of the staircase to our rooms and immediately resorted to his library, busying himself amongst his reference books, almanacs and scrapbooks of newspaper cuttings. I, knowing I was surplus to requirements, repaired to bed.

  At breakfast the next morning, which I came down to rather late, I found my friend in a smirking, self-satisfied mood. He looked like a cat that is being petted. I do not think he had slept a wink.

  “I have sent a telegram to Lestrade of the Yard,” said he, “letting him know
what transpired last night in Shoreditch. I have told him where Daniel Greensmith’s body may be found, although I strongly suspect it will not be there any more.”

  “Starkey will surely have disposed of it by now – had it dumped in the river, most likely.”

  “True, alas. I have mentioned Starkey’s name to Lestrade in connection with the death, anyway. We shall see what eventuates. Nothing, I suspect. Starkey will have a cast-iron alibi, no doubt, and the police will not be able to place him anywhere near the scene at the time. But it seemed the least courtesy I could offer poor old Greensmith. As for Greensmith’s dying word…”

  “Fanthorpe,” I said, smearing a slice of toast with Patum Peperium, not too thickly because a gentleman does not relish excessive amounts of anchovy paste. “What of it?”

  “I now know who Fanthorpe is. Or rather, who and what. Really I should have made the connection instantly upon hearing the name. Sometimes I wonder if the attic of my brain has become too crammed with extraneous lumber and is in need of a good clearing out. How does one go about forgetting facts for which one no longer has any use? How? A blow to the region of the cerebellum concerned with memory perhaps, to shake loose the accreted excess like tapping mud off a boot? A phrenologist might know.”

  “And who, or what, is Fanthorpe?”

  “Finish eating,” said Holmes, lighting a cigarette, “and then you shall find out.”

  * * *

  Less than an hour later we were in the lower reaches of Mayfair. There, in a terraced street leading off from St James’s Square, we presented ourselves at the door of one of the many imposing business premises to be found in that district. A brass plaque beside the bell-pull read: FANTHORPE OVERSEAS VENTURES.

  A bespectacled, sallow-skinned clerk let us in, and after Holmes had presented his card and requested a meeting with the board of directors, we were bidden to wait. We seated ourselves in plush, leather-upholstered wingback chairs that seemed designed to impress with their opulence, as did the rest of the decorations in the reception area. The gilt-framed paintings on the walls, for example, were all Old Masters, although whether genuine or reproduction I am not qualified to say. They looked authentic enough to me.

  “Do you really think the board of a company as august as this one will be willing to speak to the likes of us?” I said to Holmes, when the clerk had left us alone for some ten minutes.

  “If not, I have a contingency plan, but one I would prefer not to resort to unless absolutely necessary.”

  Further minutes passed, during which time I occupied myself reading the latest edition of The Times, which had been left on a side table, neatly folded, for the convenience of visitors. A headline on the fourth page caught my eye.

  WOLVES ESCAPE FROM MENAGERIE

  The story detailed how a pack of wolves had absconded during the night from their enclosure on a private estate near Chelmsford. The landowner, a baronet, was an amateur zoologist and something of a maverick, who also kept other animals such as wombats, llamas, an orang-utan and even a Javan rhino on his property. The wolves had burrowed under the fence, and the baronet had vowed to enlist the aid of the local hunt, of which he was a member, in tracking down and recapturing them. Livestock farmers in the area were not, it must be said, terribly reassured by his promises.

  Showing the article to Holmes, I remarked that it sounded like a job for our newfound ally Quatermain. “I should put him in touch with this baronet fellow,” I said. “He’d have the wolves rounded up and back home in no time.”

  Holmes did not seem in the mood for my little joke. Instead, he rose and sauntered over to the front desk. There he began leafing through the appointments diary that lay open on the desktop.

  “I don’t think you should be doing that,” I averred.

  “Is it my fault the clerk has deserted his post and the diary is unattended?” came the reply.

  “But what are you hoping to find?”

  “Can a fellow not indulge his curiosity? Just keep an ear out in case the clerk comes back. A throat-clearing will do as a warning.”

  Three tense minutes followed while Holmes perused the diary and I listened for footfalls. Then my companion returned to the wingback chair beside me, looking vaguely thoughtful.

  A further five minutes elapsed before the clerk finally did return. The length of time we had been left cooling our heels told us just how unimportant we were in the scheme of things, at least as far as those who ran Fanthorpe Overseas Ventures were concerned.

  “The directors are busy today,” the clerk said, resuming his seat at the desk.

  “All day?” said Holmes.

  “All day. Perhaps you might care to try again tomorrow.”

  “At what hour?”

  The clerk smiled unctuously. “Name a time.”

  “Ten o’clock.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Eleven.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Twelve.”

  The clerk shook his head.

  “You are not even checking.” Holmes jabbed a forefinger in the direction of the appointments diary.

  “I don’t have to.”

  “I see. Well then, you leave me no other recourse. Would you do me the inestimable honour of going back to the directors and saying one word to them?”

  The clerk wrung his hands in a parody of servility. He could have given Uriah Heep lessons in obsequiousness. “One word, sir?”

  “Yes. They will change their minds when they hear it, I guarantee you.”

  “They will? Just one single word? I should be most curious to learn what it is.”

  Holmes leaned closer to him and murmured something which I only just caught and which made as little an immediate impression upon me as it did upon the clerk.

  “Mycroft.”

  “That is it?” said the clerk, raising an eyebrow. “‘Mycroft ’?”

  “Run along and see what effect it has. You may be surprised.”

  The clerk disappeared again, and in his absence I queried Holmes about “Mycroft ”. What did it signify? Was it a place? A code? Something akin to the Freemason’s secret handshake?

  “It is an ‘open sesame’, Watson. It is the skeleton key that unlocks many a door, especially here in such close proximity to Westminster and the corridors of power.”

  I pressed him to elucidate, but he would not. My regular readers will of course apprehend the reference. For me, though, the mystery of “Mycroft” would not be resolved until some four years later, when Holmes finally, formally revealed to me the existence of his older brother during the affair of Melas, the Greek interpreter.

  The clerk returned to the reception area with considerably greater alacrity than before, and in short order was escorting Holmes and me up to the first floor. The magical spell of the word “Mycroft” had wrought a marked change in his attitude. Now he was no longer fawning to us in a condescending, sarcastic fashion, but as if he meant it.

  “This way please,” said he as he opened a pair of double-doors.

  Beyond lay a boardroom the size and splendour of which cannot be overstated. From the hanging tapestries to the oak panelling to the alabaster statuary in alcoves, it was poised at the tipping-point between grandeur and grandiosity. A vast mahogany table dominated the space, and at one end sat three men who were close in age to one another, all in their early forties or thereabouts, and so similar in physical appearance that they had to be related somehow. All shared the same sandy hair, the same puffy, dimpled cheeks and the same slightly going-to-seed build.

  “The brothers Fanthorpe,” said Holmes as the clerk closed the doors behind us. “Kind of you to grant us an audience. We are much obliged.”

  “We felt we had no choice,” said the central Fanthorpe, who looked to be the oldest. “Certain insinuations of influence cannot be disregarded.”

  “You may have five minutes of our time,” said the brother to his right, “and not a second more.”

  “Then let us not waste
another moment bandying about pleasantries,” said Holmes. “Fanthorpe Overseas Ventures is one of the world’s largest and most successful exploiters of mineral rights. You have mining interests around the globe, but a good sixty per cent of your business is concentrated in southern Africa.”

  “Yes,” said the third brother. “So?”

  “Silasville,” said Holmes. “Christened after your late father, I believe, Silas Fanthorpe, founder of this illustrious enterprise which the three of you inherited.”

  “You have done your homework,” said Fanthorpe Major. “What about Silasville?”

  “The gold mine there has proved a spectacularly lucrative source of revenue. Your company has been excavating the site for over two decades, and the seam has yet to be exhausted.”

  “Is there a point to all this stating of fact?” said the brother on the right. “Or have you come merely to lecture us upon a subject in which we are already eminently conversant?”

  “You are Samuel Fanthorpe, am I right? The middle brother, one year the junior of Sebastian, one year the senior of Stanley.”

  As though at a roll-call, each brother reacted to the sound of his name with a small, perhaps unconscious gesture of acknowledgement.

  “I enquire about Silasville,” Holmes continued, “purely in order to establish whether its reputation as a place of hideously draconian working practices is warranted or not.”