Sherlock Holmes

by Cavan Scott

  After some discussion, bordering on an argument, the policemen finally left. We assured them that we would look after my wife, and would report any further incident. Reluctantly they took their leave, and I had to wonder about their place in the conspiracy that had formed around our lives. To whom would they be making a report? Mycroft? The ruffled feathers of Whitehall? Chances were that they would merely be filling out a report for their sergeant, but it was so hard to know.

  Ignoring the state of the kitchen, the drawers scattered on the floor and the crockery smashed, I made a pot of tea and took it through to the drawing room.

  Holmes was there, questioning my wife, his voice calm and concerned, easing details from her. It took every ounce of self-control I possessed not to jump in, but such an interruption might result in my missing a vital detail that would help Holmes get to the bottom of all this. I had to be patient, and so I tried to distract myself by pouring the tea.

  “So, you came in at a quarter past five?”

  My wife nodded. “I knew something was wrong, straight away. He was in John’s study, ripping the place apart.”

  It was true that my study was in chaos. Books had been thrown from the bookshelves, my desk ransacked. The thought of that brute rifling through my possessions was only erased by the tightening of my chest I felt every time I imagined him coming face to face with my wife.

  I placed her cup on the table beside her chair. She thanked me, but left it where it was.

  “I didn’t know what to do,” she admitted.

  “You should have got out,” I cut in, sitting in my usual chair.

  “I know, but I was scared. For a moment, I thought it might even be you, that you had lost something.”

  “But the rest of the house?”

  “I didn’t notice the mess at first. It was all so confusing. I called your name and it went silent. I went to the study…”

  “What did he do when he saw you?” Holmes enquired.

  “He shouted. But his voice, it was strange.”

  “In what way?” I asked.

  “It was cultured, that’s the only way I can think to describe it. The voice of an educated man. Not what I expected at all, considering his appearance. ‘Where are they?’ he demanded. ‘Your husband and his associate. Tell me!’ I asked what he was doing in my house, what he wanted with us. He just repeated the same question. ‘Where are they? What have they discovered?’”

  “Much that we can’t believe,” I said, quietly.

  “And then he came at me, crossing the hallway in one stride, or so it seemed. He had me pinned against the wall, his hands on my arms, holding me tight.” She rubbed her right forearm, shuddering. “His hands were so cold.”

  “Did he hurt you?” I asked. “Show me.”

  She let me come across to her and rolled up her sleeve. There were four livid bruises left by gigantic fingers, the thumb mark a huge purple circle. “Oh my darling,” I said, kneeling beside her.

  “I screamed,” she recalled, her hands in mine. “I’m not ashamed to admit it, and he shouted at me to be quiet, but it was too late. Someone had heard me on the street. He flung me aside, cracking my head on the wall. And then he was running through the kitchen, through the back door, out into the garden. I dragged myself to my feet and opened the front door, asking my saviour to fetch the police.”

  “And nothing of note has been taken?” Holmes asked.

  “Not from what I can see,” I said. “I’ll need to make sure, but our valuables, such as they are, are safe. By the look of things, the villain raided both bedrooms upstairs, before searching the kitchen and my study. I’ve no way of knowing if he reached the attic, as it already looks as though a whirlwind has blown through it.”

  Holmes nodded. “If Mrs Watson had not come home when she did, no doubt the drawing room would have been next.”

  “But what was he hoping to find?”

  “Notes on our case perhaps?” Holmes turned his attention back to my wife. “Now, I realise that this will be unpleasant, but can you describe him to me?”

  “I shall remember that face until the day I die. He was disfigured, heavily scarred, his face like a jigsaw puzzle.”

  “And his eyes?”

  “Yellow. Bright yellow. I didn’t even think that was possible.”

  “It’s not,” I said, sadly.

  “His hair was long and as black as night.”

  “What was he wearing?” Holmes asked.

  She shrugged. “Nothing of note. A shirt, which once would have been white, and dark overalls, equally dirty.”

  “What colour?”

  “Navy blue.”

  “But covered in earth, or only in general grime?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t remember.”

  “Please, Mrs Watson, do try. Even the smallest detail could be of vital importance.”

  She reached for the tea, her hand shaking as she raised the cup to her lips. Then she paused, as a thought occurred to her.

  “There was something.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’ll think it foolish, but as he stepped over me, to run to the kitchen, I noticed white marks on his overalls, as if he had wiped his hands on his trousers.”

  “What kind of marks? Paint?”

  She shook her head. “No, more like chalk.”

  “Could it have been plaster?”

  “Possibly. It all happened so fast.”

  “And yet you have done remarkably well, Mrs Watson.”

  “Does any of it help?”

  “More than you can imagine. Now…” he glanced at the clock on the mantel. “It is late, but there will still be trains.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Trains?”

  I realised what Holmes was saying. “You talked of going to visit your sister,” I explained.

  “Yes,” she replied, a little sharply. “But we agreed that I would stay.”

  “That was before all this happened,” I said, taking the cup and saucer from her and replacing it on the table so that I could rest my hands on hers. “I need to make sure that you are safe.”

  She stiffened, pulling her hands free. “By sending me away?”

  “Do you really want to stay?”

  She gave no answer at first, thinking the question over, before countering with her own proposition. “Come with me.”

  “To Hastings? I can’t.”

  “You want me to be safe? I shall be safer with you.”

  “I must stay here, to put this place right.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “You’ll be going after him, but you mustn’t. I have seen him, John. He is a monster.”

  “As have we,” Holmes interjected, the revelation silencing my wife. “In the hospital by the river. The man who attacked both of us matched the description you gave, Mrs Watson. Scarred face, black hair, yellow eyes.”

  “He nearly killed you!”

  “But he didn’t,” Holmes insisted. “And I wonder if that was his aim at all? He came here looking for something, as he did at Abberton Hospital.”

  “The bone?” I asked.

  “Maybe. But he didn’t hurt Mrs Watson.”

  “Have you not seen the bruises on her arm?”

  “Not purposely, then. He could have silenced her, for good and all.”

  My wife tried to stifle a whimper at the thought.

  “Forgive me,” the detective said. “I do not wish to upset you any more than I already have, but the fact that he fled without inflicting serious injury suggests that he is not out to take lives. When we encountered him at the hospital, he was cornered, trying to escape. We were simply in the way, some of us more than others.”

  “He near as damn it put you in a coma.”

  “Because I attacked him to protect you. If I had been less hasty, he might very well have continued to run. He left us both alive, didn’t he? In bad shape, yes, but still breathing.”

  “I can’t believe you’re defending him!”

  “L
ike John in Manchester, he is a man of great strength.”

  “Even so—”

  “Even so, Mrs Watson is correct.”

  My wife blinked. “I am?”

  “John must go with you. I have placed you both in danger as it is.”

  “None of this is your fault.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No!” I insisted. “I am a part of this, whether you like it or not, and I intend to see it through.” I turned to my wife. “I know you’re scared, and in all honesty, so am I, but you understand, don’t you? We have a friend, a taxi driver. I’ll pay him to take you straight to Sissy’s. Door to door. No trains.”

  “But you won’t come with me?” she asked.

  “I can’t, if only because I want to hold this rogue to account myself.”

  “You could leave it to the police.”

  “I could, but I won’t. And I know how stubborn that makes me sound, how stupid maybe, but I need to see this through to the end, especially now. Especially as he has done this to you. Please tell me that you understand!”

  She gave no answer, but instead turned to Holmes. “And you’ll make sure that John is here, alive, when I return.”

  Holmes nodded solemnly. “You have my word.”

  “And I shall hold you to it,” she warned, her fists clenched to stop her jabbing an accusatory finger in his face. “If anything happens—”

  “Then a marauding giant will be the least of my worries,” Holmes conceded.

  “So, you’ll go?” I asked.

  She brushed down her skirt and stood. “I shall go and pack. Will you phone Sissy, and ask her if it is convenient?”

  “Of course I will.”

  “But don’t scare her,” she added, quickly. “Tell her that I’ve been under the weather and need some sea air. It’s not too far from the truth.”

  “Thank you for understanding.”

  “I never said I did,” she replied, and climbed the stairs to face the devastation in our bedroom.

  “Geller will take her?” I asked Holmes.

  “I have no doubt, although I, not you, will be picking up the fare.”

  Leaning on my wife’s chair, I stood. “That won’t be necessary. She’s my wife, and I’ll look after her. Besides, you have more pressing matters to attend to.”

  “I do?” Holmes asked.

  “Yes. You need to tell me where I can find the man who assaulted my wife.”

  Holmes gave a grim smile. “That should be no problem.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  THE CENOTAPH

  The following morning, I waved my wife goodbye, and Geller telephoned just a few hours later to say that they had arrived in Hastings and all was well. My wife had been safely delivered into her sister’s care and he was to stay nearby to keep a watchful eye on both of them.

  Holmes had helped return the house to some semblance of order. We soon discovered that my first instincts had been correct and that nothing had been taken, but that by no means assuaged my desire to get hold of the villain.

  That evening, settling down for a nightcap, Holmes explained how he hoped to find the fiend.

  “The white powder on his overalls,” he said, taking a sip of my best brandy.

  “Plaster, you suggested.”

  “I did.”

  “How can that help us? There must be hundreds of places in London where a chap could get himself covered in plaster. Thousands even.”

  “There are. However, there is also a major construction project running through this city.”

  He produced the newspaper that had been delivered that morning. Neither of us had given it more than a glance, but he threw it across the room, where it landed, still folded, on my lap.

  “Examine the front page.”

  I unfurled the paper to reveal the picture of a tower being constructed on Whitehall.

  “The victory monuments?”

  “The victory monuments, constructed from wood and covered with plaster, although if you read the report you will see that there are already calls to make at least one a permanent structure.”

  “All very noble, but how does it help us?”

  “The photograph, Watson. Look at the workers.”

  I did, and saw that they all wore dark overalls. Of course, there was no way of telling the shade of their garments in the black and white photograph, but it could have easily been navy blue.

  “The interesting thing about the project,” Holmes continued, “is that the government has purposely employed those poor souls who have returned from the front with disfigurements that may preclude them from securing work in so-called polite society.”

  “Men with scars.”

  “Now, look at this,” Holmes said, fishing a folded handkerchief from his pocket. He leant forward and, placing it on my wife’s prized coffee table, unfolded the cloth to reveal a splinter of wood in its centre. “I discovered this on the carpet in the hallway,” he explained. “It’s oak, and rough enough to come from timber. Now tell me, what are they using to construct the monuments?”

  I glanced at the report, and looked up at him, a smile on my lips.

  “Oak,” I said.

  * * *

  As we walked through the streets the following morning, I tried not to let my hopes run away with themselves. This was a long shot, and without my wife being able to identify the overalls, we had no idea if we were on the right track, but it was as good a place to start as any.

  The site of the first monument led nowhere, but at the second tower, Holmes called over the foreman. He repeated the patter we had tried at the first site, explained that we were looking for an old friend, describing the disfigured giant. Did he work on this site?

  “And who’s asking?” the fellow had replied, his eyes lighting up when I produced a banknote in the sum of ten shillings.

  “Someone who wants to remain anonymous,” I said.

  “Don’t we all,” said he, pocketing the note. “Although, from your description, I reckon you’re looking for Aggie. Can’t imagine there’s two of him. Least I hope there isn’t.”

  “Aggie?”

  “Giant of a man, that one. You should try the Cenotaph, do you know it? The one near Downing Street. If Aggie’s anywhere, he’s there.”

  However, on arriving at the site, it seemed that we would be disappointed once again. The centre of the street was a hive of activity, the wooden frame of the Cenotaph being plastered in readiness for the procession. One couldn’t help but be impressed. No structure could adequately represent the sacrifice of the war dead, yet even in its unfinished state this was a sight to behold, tall and majestic. A week in advance of the parade, men were already doffing their hats, an act of respect that was more touching than a thousand marching troops would ever be.

  Again we approached a workman, another banknote in my hand ready to help loosen his tongue, but this time no bribe was required.

  “Aggie, aye. He’s here all right. Don’t know him too well myself. One of the quiet ones he is. Don’t say much at all.”

  He looked around, scanning his fellow workers. We spotted the brute at the same moment, but before I could hush him, the workman called out.

  “There he is. Oi, Aggie! Over here. Some fellows to see you!”

  The giant turned, his yellow eyes widening as he became aware of our identity. Then he was off, throwing aside the pallets he had been hefting, to flee across the road.

  “Watson!” Holmes called out as he sprinted after the rogue, but I needed no encouragement. Ignoring the beeping horn of the omnibus that nearly mowed me down, I took off in pursuit of him. Unsurprisingly, our quarry’s long strides had covered the road in seconds, plunging him into the crowd in the direction of Richmond Terrace.

  “Stop him!” I shouted out, not caring who heard. A few days ago, I would have dared not be so bold, especially with Mycroft’s men on our tail. Now I hoped they were still there, hiding in the shadows. If they were there to protect us, then surely they cou
ld serve us as well.

  Yet no one came to our aid. Aggie, if that was the man’s name, pelted through the crowd, knocking pedestrians flying. At least he was easy enough to spot, rising head and shoulders above the other Londoners.

  “He’s turned off,” I called to Holmes as he disappeared to the right. We were having to manhandle our way through the throng, folk shouting at us to mind our manners. At this rate, we were going to lose him again. The devil could run like the wind. By the time we reached the corner of Richmond Terrace he would have made it to the river. There was no way we could catch up.

  Yet, as we puffed our way onto the terrace, we found our prey standing stock still, his enormous arms high in the air.

  In front of him, a revolver in his hand, stood the portly figure of Inspector Tovey, a stern smile etched on his face.

  “I’m assuming that you’d like a word with this individual, Mr Holmes,” Tovey said, never taking his eyes from the giant. “I know I would.”

  “I thought you were in Cornwall, Inspector,” Holmes panted.

  “So did a lot of folk, but you know me. I’m a city boy, always have been, always will be. And as for you, Goram…”

  With his gun hand steady, Tovey raised a whistle to his lips and blew hard.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  ELIMINATE THE IMPOSSIBLE

  “Are you sure this is safe?” I asked Inspector Tovey as we walked through long dark corridors.

  “Nowhere’s safer than Scotland Yard, Doctor, no matter what Mr Holmes’s brother may say.”

  “I for one am pleased to see you,” said Holmes, walking a few paces behind us, no doubt in order to observe the faces of the officers and administrative staff who passed by. “How was your case in the West Country?”

  “Insulting, that’s what it was. If the powers that be thought shipping me off to Fowey would get me out of the way, they could at least have found something to keep me busy.” He adopted a suitably sepulchral tone, as beloved by hams in music halls the world over. “Mysterious disappearances linked to a suspected witches’ coven. Load of stuff and nonsense. Ended up being a simple smugglers’ ring, as I suspected from the moment I stepped off the train.”

  “And your superiors?”