Murder at Sorrow's Crown

by Steven Savile

“Would you prepare some tea for her?” I said to Mrs. Hudson.

  She smiled. “I already have the kettle on.” She withdrew to fetch our visitor. I resumed my own place, curious as to the nature of the visit, but could not resist pointing out to Holmes that our landlady appeared to have taken his measure as carefully as he measured others. He gave a derisive snort but said nothing further, which I chose to interpret as agreement.

  Hermione Frances Sara Wynter was at least seventy, perhaps older, as wrinkles softened her features. She had her steel-grey hair tucked neatly under a dark bonnet and her dress was of a similarly dark hue, stern stuff highlighted by a white collar and several pieces of gold jewellery. Even I could tell she had or once had had considerable funds. She was barely five feet tall, the slight stoop of her shoulders robbing her of another two or three inches, and it was obvious that age was not treating her kindly.

  “Mrs. Wynter, Sherlock Holmes at your service,” he said in tones kinder than any I had heard that day. He was making an effort, most likely for Mrs. Hudson’s benefit, but which I certainly appreciated.

  “Thank you so much for seeing me without an appointment, Mr. Holmes.”

  “I will admit I am seeking a case to occupy my mind so I find myself speaking with one and all,” Holmes said. “So tell me, how do you believe I can be of assistance?”

  The elderly lady wrung her hands, worrying at a silk handkerchief and in the process presenting herself as the very picture of a woman in distress, though what was on her mind had to wait a few moments as Mrs. Hudson arrived and laid out afternoon tea. She poured first for Mrs. Wynter, and through some silent communication knew just how much milk and sugar to use. Holmes let the act play itself out without a word. He did not stir until Mrs. Hudson had closed the door behind her.

  “How did you come to find me, Mrs. Wynter?”

  “Giles DeVere, a business associate of my deceased husband, made mention of your considerable skills. I understand you helped him with a problem several years ago.”

  I gave my companion a look with raised eyebrows, but he just nodded in agreement. The name meant nothing to me. I turned to our guest.

  “Mr. DeVere is an industrialist up north,” she explained. “He and my dear Lyle were associates and we have maintained cordial contact since his passing.” I was intrigued as to how Holmes had helped DeVere, but now was not the time to press for details. “I am here about my son, Norbert,” she said before taking a sip of tea.

  “Is he in some sort of trouble?” Holmes asked eagerly.

  “He was due home in June,” said she, then trailed off.

  “From where?”

  “I’m sorry, I should explain. Norbert is with the Royal Navy. He is a lieutenant serving aboard HMS Dido.”

  Being an avid follower of military matters in the press, I knew the Dido had seen action during the recent war against the Boers in South Africa, but seemed to recall reading the ship had returned some weeks back.

  “And what is your concern?” Holmes prompted.

  “I went to the docks to welcome my son home. I waited and I watched, but as our boys disembarked one by one, there was neither hide nor hair of him. Frantic, I asked his shipmates, but many did not know him and those who did said he was not aboard. I had a terrible time finding his superior officers and they refused to say what had become of him, no matter how much I begged. No one would give me any answers. I left with no idea if my boy was alive or dead.”

  “Did you think to make inquiries at the Admiralty?” asked Holmes.

  Mrs. Wynter nodded impatiently. “I have made several trips both to the Admiralty and the War Office—Dido sent a naval brigade to fight at Majuba you see, and I thought the army might have the information the navy could not provide. It was most vexing.”

  It was clear to me that this woman had little understanding of how the different branches of Her Majesty’s armed forces worked. There was no need for her to bother the army, losing her precious time.

  “People feigned ignorance, offered platitudes, wished me luck in finding him,” she went on without pause, “but few seemed genuinely interested in helping me locate Norbert.”

  Holmes leaned closer, as did I, sensing there was more to this story.

  “Finally, I found a secretary who agreed to look through the records after I was refused yet another meeting. He informed me that Norbert was listed on the Dido’s manifest as being Missing in Action.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. In contrast my companion sat impassively offering nary a word of sympathy.

  Mrs. Wynter shook her head. “There’s more. He said there was a footnote to the entry and from what he could discern, there was the suggestion that Norbert had deserted during battle.” Desertion was one of the most heinous crimes one could commit while in uniform. I could not hold back the wave of revulsion at the very notion, and she could not help but see it.

  Holmes and I exchanged looks, mine of surprise, his of something else entirely, then returned our attention to Mrs. Wynter, who dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.

  “Lyle and I had Norbert late in our married life and maybe we doted on him too much. However, Norbert may not be a war hero,” she looked me in the eye then, “but I did not raise my son to be a deserter.” I said nothing. “He may have died in battle, his body unrecovered, I can accept that. Too many of our boys are listed as Missing in Action. What I will not accept is his reputation… his memory… being tarnished in this way. I have exhausted all my efforts, Mr. Holmes. I am at the end of my strength. I need someone to take up the baton from me, and am hoping that someone might be you, a man known for his fierce dedication to the truth. I want to know what happened to my son. That is all. That should not be so much, should it?”

  Holmes and I sat in silence for several moments as she continued to dab at her eyes. After nearly a full minute, he leaned forward and asked, “Please give me whatever details you have. Leave nothing out.”

  The relief on Mrs. Wynter’s face was deeply affecting. She explained that her son was attached to the Dido, which was, in turn, posted to the West Africa Station from ’79. According to what the Admiralty revealed to her, young Norbert was part of the naval brigade that went ashore to join the Natal Field Force when the Boers rose up. It was therefore unlikely he would have been at Majuba Hill in February this year. Still, her boy did not return with the Dido in June.

  “I have no idea if he even left Africa, or if something happened on board during the voyage home. Indeed, it is all a mystery to me,” Mrs. Wynter admitted. “The truth of the matter is that no one will tell an old woman what has become of her only son. I have made my appeals at Whitehall and the Admiralty, but as I told you, all I have learned is that he is classified as Missing in Action. He cannot be a deserter, Mr. Holmes. Norbert was faithful and loyal to the Crown. I know my boy; he would never abandon his post. In his letters, Norbert described his shipmates as if they were his brothers. Something else must have happened.”

  “When did you last hear from him?” Holmes asked.

  She reached into her small handbag and withdrew a well-worn document. Holmes’s long, tapered fingers snatched it from her and his eyes quickly scanned the contents. He then handed it casually to me, as if it were nothing of importance. The letter, dated 5th January, seemed innocuous—reports of shipboard high jinks and complaints about the food. It contained nothing about the war nor gave a clue as to Norbert Wynter’s disappearance that I could see.

  Mrs. Wynter wrung her hands. “It is the not knowing that haunts me and keeps me awake at night. You can understand that, can’t you, Mr. Holmes? Norbert is no deserter. I know my own son. Someone is hiding the truth.” Her tone was filled with the anguish of a mother bereft and seemed to be begging Holmes to tell her she was right.

  Holmes seemed far from convinced. His penetrating eyes remained fixed on hers, revealing nothing. I, however, will admit that I was moved by her appeal. Having been an Assistant Surgeon with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, I had
seen the horror of war with my own eyes, albeit in Afghanistan and not Africa. I could imagine just how savagely the lack of knowledge gnawed away at the woman day and night. While my own mother was long gone, I could scarcely imagine what she might have felt had she heard of my injury. Weeks of not knowing how bad it was, if I would ever walk again. Just bringing it to mind caused me to lean forward and massage my knee. Holmes glanced in my direction, and I was sure he had ascertained my train of thought.

  “Holmes, surely we can provide Mrs. Wynter with some assistance?”

  “Some assistance, yes,” he began and in my eagerness to get him to commit, I uncharacteristically cut him off and turned toward Mrs. Wynter.

  “Do you have a likeness of Norbert?”

  “Yes, I do,” said she, and once more dipped into her bag, withdrawing a worn photograph. Norbert, tall, exceedingly thin, stood proudly in his naval uniform. His left hand clutched the sabre while his right thumb was tucked beneath the narrow black belt. To my eye, he appeared maybe twenty-five, certainly under thirty, with dark hair—brown rather than black I suspected—and a moustache that framed his upper lip. His eyes stared fixedly at the camera, filled with pride.

  “It was taken when he was promoted to lieutenant,” she said with pride.

  “A handsome lad,” I said politely. Holmes snatched the photograph from my fingers and examined it minutely for some time. He then returned it to Mrs. Wynter and rose to his feet.

  “This appears to be a mere missing person case,” he said. She began to speak but he cut her off with a raised hand. “However, for the Royal Navy to hint at desertion speaks to something else, I think, something more than a mere missing seaman. For that reason and that alone I shall accept the case for my normal fee and shall commence work immediately.”

  Mrs. Wynter rose, her face illuminated by her smile, making the wear of the years briefly fade away.

  “I am ever so grateful, Mr. Holmes. If you are half as good as your reputation, I know that you shall find my son.”

  “I shall find the truth about your son, Mrs. Wynter. Whether the actual man himself materialises along with it remains to be seen,” he corrected, hardly comfortingly, as he walked her to the door.

  Two

  A Bureaucratic Wall

  Holmes sat brooding, his disgruntled air a clear indication that he was taking the case against his better judgment, but I could see that the notion of branding a man a “deserter” bothered him. Without sufficient cause such a tarnishing of a young man’s life in death was bothersome.

  “Watson, my good man, I think it is time for us to make a trip to the Admiralty.”

  “You mean to start the investigation this very moment?” Our new client had only just departed.

  “The sooner we begin, the sooner, inevitably, we conclude the case. Given the financial circumstances you are so keen to remind me of, I feel my time is better used in solving Mrs. Wynter’s dilemma than burning more cigars today.” I wasn’t about to argue with that particular deduction.

  The incessant rain had lightened but not desisted altogether, so we dressed in our topcoats despite the summer heat, and descended to Baker Street, where Holmes flagged down a hansom. We rolled down Regent Street and through Piccadilly Circus. The rain had not kept the city’s inhabitants indoors; the shops appeared to be doing a fine trade. Holmes kept his own counsel during the journey, no doubt making many observations, filing away titbits of information for another time. The cab rolled on, steel rims clanking on the hard surface, down past Charing Cross and around until we began to see the first buildings of Whitehall rising before us. The centre of government was both a daunting and an inspiring sight, the true beating heart of this great land of ours.

  The Admiralty was housed in a splendid building constructed by the famed architect Thomas Ripley and finished more than a century and a half earlier. It was an imposing structure, sturdy in its white stone and brown brick, with a low wall in front with three entrances, added many years after the main three-storey building.

  We passed through the central entrance and across the courtyard, past the two long arms of the building on either side of us, towards the main doors. Despite having served with the army I had never had cause to visit the Admiralty and I admit I was suitably impressed with its serious and sober air. As one would expect, it had gravitas. We passed a variety of senior naval officers, their adjutants hurrying to keep up with them, carrying umbrellas to keep the woollen uniforms dry as the rain continued to fall.

  Within, we were greeted by polished wood and marble corridors that led to a warren of offices barren of any appropriate signage, which caused us a momentary confusion.

  “Watson, where do you think we should begin?” asked Holmes.

  “I suppose we would begin with some sort of records office,” I said. “I admit, I would not know where to begin finding such an office without asking for assistance.”

  “Why start with a lowly clerk?” asked Holmes. My companion was of a mind to seek a higher authority from the outset. He put himself before a harried-looking officer who was struggling with a stack of books and maps.

  “Your pardon, sir, but I am seeking the Board of Admiralty.”

  That announcement caused the officer and me to gape in surprise. As was typical of my companion, he was beginning at the very top of the organisation whereas I would have naturally begun with the clerks, the ones who always knew what’s what, and worked my way up. I could not fathom his reasoning, but watched with curiosity.

  “They meet on the top floor,” the man said in a rough voice. “Are you expected?”

  “No,” Holmes said and proceeded toward a staircase without waiting to be challenged.

  I followed him in silence, doing my best to keep up as we worked our way to the top floor and there found offices for the Board of Admiralty, the leading advisors to the Admiral of the Fleet. Sir Alexander Milne had only recently been appointed to the post and I very much doubted that Holmes intended to see the man himself but with Holmes one never knew.

  Without knocking, my companion swung open a heavy oak door and confronted a startled young man in uniform who sat with a stack of papers on his small, untidy desk.

  “Good day, sir, I wish to make an inquiry about a missing naval officer,” Holmes began without preamble, putting the clerk immediately at a disadvantage in what was about to become their conversation. The clerk blinked once, then twice, slowly rising and revealing himself to be about a head shorter than Holmes, twenty years of age, if that. There was still some boyish fat to his cheeks and his pale complexion implied he was deskbound and had not been to sea this year, if ever. A quick exchange of names revealed his to be Pegg and he hesitated each time he spoke, displaying a combination of caution and some nervousness.

  “You say a missing officer?”

  “Quite. He served aboard the Dido and did not return with it last month. I’d like to find him.”

  The clerk was clearly flummoxed, unaccustomed to a civilian walking in and making demands. He seemed uncertain if he should reply or summon help. I almost pitied the man.

  “I, ah, well, I certainly have no such information in this room, sir, nor is it the Royal Navy’s habit of providing it to anyone other than members of the service,” said Pegg, finally finding his voice; one, I might add, that sounded less the able seaman and every bit the bureaucrat.

  “Is it also the navy’s habit to misplace their lieutenants?”

  That gave Pegg pause. I interjected, to try and persuade him as to the correctness of our cause. “I myself have served in Her Majesty’s army and while not the same service, as it were, still related to the protection of the empire. I do hope you can be of assistance.”

  “A lieutenant from the Dido?” he repeated.

  “Quite right. If you lack such information, who on this floor might be able to provide it?”

  “Records are not on this floor,” the man said finally, with an audible gulp.

  “How good are these records?�
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  “Her Majesty’s Royal Navy has maintained exemplary records for centuries,” he said with pride.

  “And yet you cannot seem to keep track of a sailor from this very year,” Holmes observed, with no trace of humour in his voice.

  “I would ask that you redirect your inquiry to the Office of Records, first floor, left wing,” the officer said, addressing me and pointedly averting his gaze from Holmes.

  “A moment, sir,” Holmes said. Pegg paused and finally looked up again to meet his eyes.

  “Yes?” He was clearly trying to sound officious, but his youth undermined him.

  “The Board of Admiralty. This is the decision-making body of the Royal Navy?”

  “Yes it is.”

  “Are they always in the habit of wasting the taxpayer’s funds?”

  The poor man blinked. I myself had no idea what Holmes was getting at.

  “The hallways are carpeted.”

  “Fine Persian rugs, imported decades ago I am told,” said he.

  “Someone was taken in by fakes, and not very good ones at that,” Holmes said.

  Poor Pegg looked torn between instinctively defending the fraudulent flooring and wanting to know how Holmes could possibly know they were counterfeit. “What do you mean?”

  “If you would be so kind,” Holmes said, using a slight gesture to indicate the man was to follow him out of the office. Indeed, the man rose as curiosity got the better of him. He obediently and slowly followed Holmes just past the threshold and turned his attention to the rug he no doubt ignored during his time in the building.

  “The Persians are known for their rugs because of the level of craftsmanship, design, and ability to wear for many years,” Holmes said. “Even in a building such as this, with a high level of foot traffic, they should hold up. Instead, you will see that this example—” he turned and knelt on the carpet in the corridor “—is in the process of unravelling in certain places. Additionally, true Persian dyes are permanent and these carpets are beginning to fade. Note if you will, the deep blues along the edges are still in reasonable shape, but where the foot treads more frequently, they have grown several shades lighter. Upon closer inspection, you will find other patterns and colours beneath. This was once an entirely different carpet, remade to resemble Persian, and someone in the procurement department was duped.”