Murder at Sorrow's Crown

by Steven Savile

  He approached as I continued to struggle, searching for freedom which proved most elusive. All it took was two jabs with piston-precision to force the air from my lungs and cause me to double over, had the iron arms allowed me the luxury of movement. The pain was tremendous and I steeled myself for additional blows.

  “What’s all this—” was all I managed to say before one of the powerful fists slammed into my cheek, snapping my head around, and my vision clouded for a moment. While I had tried to see details and commit them to memory, information I knew Holmes would need, all I saw now were blotches of colour. I detected a trickle of blood moving down my cheek from my bloodied nose.

  My captor hurled me to the ground and landed one booted blow to my side, causing me to roll over. I fully expected these ruffians to help themselves to my possessions but instead, they exchanged a whisper and hurried away.

  I remained still, listening to their retreating footfalls while I made certain nothing was seriously damaged. Concluding that I was whole enough, I struggled to regain my feet and patted myself down, making certain nothing had been taken. Then, wincing at the movement, I made my way to our rooms.

  To my astonishment, Holmes was already at work, attending to his own wounds, which seemed more severe than my own. There were bandages, tinctures, and gauze scattered about our table and he was completing his work when he finally looked in my direction.

  “I see they got to us both, then,” he said and gestured to the chair opposite him. As I fell heavily into place, he pushed the medical supplies and a hand mirror in my direction.

  “How bad is it?” inquired Holmes.

  “Bad enough, but at least I kept ahold of my possessions,” I said as I began the process of staunching the blood.

  “As I expected,” Holmes said.

  “Tell me what happened,” said I.

  “While you were out researching the newspapers, I was verifying the Dido’s movements for the last twelve months, using the public resources at the library. I found nothing that did not match what we already knew from Mrs. Wynter. As I was returning here after making some other arrangements, I was grabbed one street over. Two large, powerfully built men took me by surprise and pummelled me for a bit before taking off.”

  “And likewise, they did not rob you?”

  “Of course not,” Holmes said as he rose from the chair and began to walk the room. “After all, they were naval men, not common street criminals.”

  I paused in my ministrations, which were nearly completed, and stared at him. “Naval men?”

  “Quite. I never saw them approach and they worked in tandem, making quick work of the business. By the precision of their actions I would judge them men used to working in concert. Then there was the matter of their strength. Hauling equipment, working on a vessel, harden their muscles. There was no fat, and most tellingly, none of the familiar signs of too much drink, common to the street thief.

  “Both men had nearly identical haircuts, naval regulation, and were clean-shaven. Their clothing was dark and nondescript with the exception of the trousers which flared at the bottom, allowing a certain freedom of movement. One of the men also had a lanyard around his neck, the very type worn by sailors to hold their seaman’s knife.”

  “Why would this pair attack us?”

  “Think on it, Watson.”

  I did as instructed while cleaning up the first aid supplies and realised the answer was obvious.

  “Someone sent them from the Admiralty.”

  “Not just someone, but Hampton.”

  “How can you be certain?” I asked, resuming my seat at the table. While presentable, I was also sore and the chair was comfortable enough.

  “He’s a veteran and knows many men, including a pair who would likely work in an unofficial capacity. Everything I have learned speaks of Hampton being prone to violence as a means of recourse.”

  “Did you really rile him so much that he needed to send men to express his displeasure?”

  “Not in the slightest,” Holmes said. “He sent them because he could. He had the wherewithal and resources but the message could just as easily have come from any of the offices we visited yesterday.”

  “Because we inquired after Wynter?”

  “Precisely. As I suspected there must have been some notation in the ledgers next to his name that stood as a warning against revelation. We have just been warned away from the investigation in a manner the Royal Navy itself could not deliver.”

  “Did you see their faces? Could you recognise them again?”

  Holmes shook his head once. “They were nearly identical in most regards: size, shape and strength. The only discernible feature was a crescent-shaped scar near the left temple of one man.”

  “For you, that should suffice.”

  “Quite,” said Holmes. “And contrary to their aim, the warning has only served to signal there is something worth hiding here. However deep the concealment, I am now determined to find the truth and with it, the whereabouts of Norbert Wynter.”

  I sat in the chair and let the events settle in my mind. While my thoughts are not possibly near as orderly as Holmes’s, I consider myself a fairly intelligent man, able to connect points into a logical line. There was something bothering me and I had to relax myself after the recent ordeal and see if it would rise to the surface on its own.

  Holmes busied himself as I sat, weariness making me groggy, but just before I fell into a sleep, the question nagging at me presented itself and I snapped my eyes open and addressed my companion.

  “Holmes, didn’t you tell me you have connections in government circles?”

  Holmes looked up at that, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. He gave me a curt nod of the head and returned to whatever it was he was doing.

  “Could they not make some form of introduction for us?” I asked. “They might well be able to cut through this blasted bureaucracy and speed our way to finding Wynter.”

  My companion seemed not to hear me, but after a prolonged silence finally spoke.

  “While it is true I have a close relative that works within Her Majesty’s Government, he is currently in America on official business and has left no means of contacting him, so no, he won’t be of any help in our investigation. Truth be told, he hates to leave the comfort of his club, let alone London, and would happily see out his days within those four walls if he could,” said Holmes.

  “Sounds like quite the character,” I said.

  “I would not go that far,” Holmes said, and that was his final word on the matter.

  * * *

  It was another day before Newkirk met me in the courtyard at the Admiralty. He carried a leather satchel, which I hoped contained the promised medical file. It was a rare dry day that July and the sun felt good as we shook hands. Even my wounded leg had settled down and was no longer a bother.

  He pulled a brown cardboard file from his satchel.

  “You may read the papers,” he allowed, his voice taking on a more intimate tone, “but I must return them to the office in short order. I already took the liberty of giving it a read and, I must say, found everything pleasantly unremarkable.”

  I opened the file to reveal a sheaf of papers, clearly an enlisted man’s medical record such as I was familiar with from my army days. I flicked through the pages, seeing a series of notations for height and weight, other physical characteristics, and the few times Wynter had reported to the ship’s surgeon. There was a broken finger in 1879 but nothing noted for 1881. The last entry had been made in the autumn of 1880; a bout of illness that seemed to resolve itself without intervention.

  “He seems like a perfectly healthy chap,” Newkirk said brightly.

  “At least on paper,” I allowed. “I would like to ascertain that for myself, but that is the issue. We cannot seem to find the fellow.” I handed the file back to Newkirk.

  Newkirk looked at the entries on the top sheet and raised an eyebrow. “According to this, the man is no longer listed a
s being on active duty. You say you have no idea of Lieutenant Wynter’s whereabouts?”

  “None, and that is the issue my partner and I are investigating. He appears to have vanished and your fellow officers are being less than forthright about it. At least we can tell from this file that it was nothing related to his health. Eliminating this will be invaluable in our search for a cause for his absence.”

  Newkirk nodded thoughtfully.

  We shook hands and I returned to Baker Street to share these developments, precious little as they were. As I entered our rooms, Holmes was deep in concentration, wrapped up in the study of a map of Africa. His long index finger traced a line across the blue of the ocean. As I settled into my chair, I told him about my meeting with Newkirk. He absorbed the information with a curt nod.

  “I am glad you have returned,” Holmes said, looking up from the map. “We have a visitor coming at three who should help shed some light on the entire affair.”

  The news brightened my spirits and I sat straighter in the chair and asked who was calling on us.

  “His name is Professor G. Morgan West, a lecturer at the University of London.”

  “How will Professor West help us with this matter?” I was genuinely confounded. How could a professor help us find a missing sailor?

  “As I have explained in the past, I store only the most vital of information and clear mental space as needed. You have on more than one occasion noted that I lack much in the way of awareness of how the world works.”

  “Quite right. Just the other night I mentioned how I wished to see Bunthorne’s Bride at the Opera Comique and you had no idea the show existed or that it was by Gilbert and Sullivan.”

  “And what was that novel you were going on about?”

  I thought a moment and then snapped my fingers. “Ah yes, I was talking about an article I was reading concerning Henry James and his forthcoming novel Portrait of a Lady, something I hope to find time for once it sees the light of day.”

  “I am not entirely without culture, Watson. After all, a mere four months ago I consulted with the British Museum, helping them identify several of their recent acquisitions.”

  That was a surprise. “I had no idea.”

  “It was when I was doing my chemical work, just before we met,” Holmes elucidated. He was clearing some space on our table, presumably for the professor and his belongings. Several maps of Africa remained in place. “I am not in the habit of paying undue attention to global politics, though it would appear I now need to remedy this, hence the good professor coming to teach us about the recent unpleasantness against the Boers.”

  I nodded in thoughtful agreement, pleased to see that Holmes knew his limitations.

  Professor West arrived shortly after three, perspiring in his brown wool suit, his face damp with sweat. He mopped his ruddy brow with a handkerchief that had seen better days as he gratefully accepted a glass of water from Mrs. Hudson. The man was on the wrong side of fifty, rather overweight, with his ample girth straining the buttons of his colourful waistcoat. His receding hairline was limp, badly in need of a brush, and his overall look was that of a man unaccustomed to venturing out of the hallowed halls of academia.

  “Gentlemen, I am given to understand that neither one of you have a good working knowledge of the recent war in the Transvaal, the key battles and locations of same. Is that the case?”

  “I served in Afghanistan,” I said in a defensive tone. That caught his attention and he nodded. Holmes said nothing and waited for our guest to continue.

  “I see. Very good then. I assume that you do know that we have been aggressively colonising the southern portion of the African continent for some time now? We have been doing this largely to control the trade routes between Britain and India where our interests are stronger than ever.” He drained the remainder of his water before continuing his private lecture.

  Holmes returned his gaze to the map. Our guest and I followed his gaze; I supposed that Holmes was imagining the trade routes, quickly understanding centuries of development in a matter of seconds.

  “At the same time, the African tribes have been trying to find a way to coexist and create a united front; much like the colonies did in North America. After losing America, the Crown decided we needed to tighten our hold and expand elsewhere. Africa became the next continent where we vied for land against other European interests. Fortunately, we were lucky to discover diamonds in the hills of the Transvaal.”

  “Wasn’t there a bit of a gold rush there?” I asked.

  “Quite right,” said he in the voice he no doubt used with his students. Approving in tone, it also had a very paternal quality to it.

  “We had already annexed the Drakensberg Mountains, which put us between two rival tribes: the Boers and the Zulus.”

  “The Boers are of Dutch extraction,” I interjected.

  “Yes and they grudgingly accepted our rule,” West continued. “The Dutch formed two republics, the Transvaal Republic or Zuid-Afrikaansche Republiek and the Orange Free State, which we recognised at conventions nearly thirty years ago. Boer is the Afrikaans word for ‘farmer’ and they led a quiet life. Once diamonds were discovered about fifteen years ago, the fourth Earl of Carnarvon, who was the British Secretary of State for the Colonies at the time, suggested we combine the two republics into a single unit of South African lands. He urged Disraeli to combine the Transvaal states now and the Orange Free State would follow, a position he had been pushing since ’76. While we liked the notion, the Boers were less than keen and when we pressed the annexation, they finally rebelled last December.”

  “I remember reading some of Carnarvon’s speeches on the subject,” I interjected. “He was not averse to using force to achieve his goal.”

  West nodded in agreement, pleased with his student. “Men like him seldom are, as shown by our war with the Zulus even before this recent conflict with the Boers.”

  “We’re drifting off topic,” said Holmes curtly. His finger traced another point on the map, this time at the bottom tip of the continent, the Cape of Good Hope.

  “Quite right. Carnarvon spent the next few years using his political and financial might to sway a weak Transvaal government. Even though Carnarvon told President Burgers—rather bluntly—of his intentions, Burgers’ warnings to the people were ignored or at least not taken seriously enough, giving Britain the time to wear away at any resistance such as there was. Annexation was inevitable, but once it became fact, protests arose in Pretoria and throughout the land.

  “As so often happens, a single spark can start a great conflagration. In this case it was a single fellow refusing to pay extra duties on his goods wagon. He felt he was paying enough in Transvaal taxes and objected to paying more to the Crown. You would think we would have learned our lessons from the American colonies, but I digress.”

  “Indeed you do,” agreed Holmes. West stiffened at the rebuke but continued with his lecture.

  “The wagon was confiscated but a group of men one-hundred strong wrested it from British hands and things rapidly began to spiral out of control. Any hope of a peaceful resistance ended with that action and the contest became a physical one. There were over seven thousand Transvaalians against fewer than two thousand British troops, and the Boer militiamen, fighting in their own country with the British Westley Richards rifle, proved more than a match for our boys.

  “We had three decisive defeats. The first was in January at Laing’s Nek when Major-General Sir George Pomeroy Colley tried to break through the Boer defensive positions, losing at least one hundred and fifty men. A few weeks later at Schuinshoogte, the Boers and Colley met again and while evenly matched for a time, the Boers proved to be better shots. Nightfall saved Colley, who retreated.

  “Then there was Majuba Hill later in February when Colley settled for the night atop the hill with about three hundred and sixty men. The remainder of his force in different positions. The Boers took advantage of the British being above them. They s
kilfully scaled the sides of the mountain, effectively surrounding Colley. Their movements were protected by marksmen too old to make the climb. It proved disastrous and Colley was killed.”

  “He sounds like a remarkably ineffectual commanding officer,” Holmes observed.

  “In my estimation, Colley was ineffectual from the outset,” the professor said. “He had already been bested at Laing’s Nek and again by Boer riflemen at the Ingogo River. He even reneged on an agreement he made with Brigadier General Evelyn Wood, refusing to remain in place while Wood awaited to reorganise fresh arriving troops. As a result, he proved a most poor choice for leader. Had he waited for reinforcements, the outcome might have been different.”

  The professor paused to see if Holmes or I had additional questions, then returned to his subject. “I will note several striking parallels between Transvaal and America—”

  “What of the Dido’s role?” Holmes interrupted, not allowing West to drift into waters we had no interest in.

  “I am glad you told me about your interest in that vessel, as it gave me time to look into its service history. The ship was stationed in West Africa and in February was pressed into service, sending fifty men and two field guns as part of a naval brigade. At the Battle of Majuba Hill on 27th February, three men were reported killed, another three wounded. Captain Compton Edward Domvile took charge at the front at that time and the ship saw no further action.”

  I considered the fact that Mrs. Wynter had said her son’s communications ceased in January, a month prior to the battle, but our researches at the Admiralty had revealed that his pay had continued into July. Perhaps Norbert Wynter had died at Majuba but the fact had been missed from the official record?