Murder at Sorrow's Crown

by Steven Savile

  “When did the fighting end?” Holmes asked.

  “Hostilities ceased on 23rd March,” the professor replied. “Majuba Hill was the last military embarrassment Parliament could stand; it was decided that it was wiser to give the Transvaal their independence rather than risk turning our armed forces into a laughing stock. A peace treaty is scheduled to be signed in the next few weeks.”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “I would hazard to suggest there might have been a different outcome had Benjamin Disraeli remained Prime Minister,” West said. I nodded in agreement. I myself had been saddened by the old man’s sudden fall from popular favour. He had resigned in April of the previous year and in January had become Conservative leader in the House of Lords. In March, just as I was first meeting Holmes, Disraeli took ill and suffered a rapid and tragic decline, finally succumbing in April.

  “You know,” I said, more to West than to Holmes, whom I assumed would care little for such observations, “his demise seemed to build slowly then accelerate with horrific pace over those final days.”

  “Do not forget that while we lost a great man in Disraeli, at least we still have our Queen,” the professor said gravely. “Russia lost their sole leader, Czar Alexander, the month before.”

  To my surprise, Holmes looked up from his map. “Do you think there might be a connection between these disparate events?”

  I was confounded. I could see nothing to link Wynter on the Dido and the former prime minister’s death, or for that matter, a dead Russian Czar.

  “I fail to see how there could possibly be.”

  “That does not mean one does not exist,” Holmes said, clearly warming to the notion of a grand conspiracy. “The threads between nations can be so thin as to be invisible to the naked eye but bind us all.”

  “This is rapidly getting beyond my field of expertise, gentlemen,” West interrupted. “Unless you have other questions, I should like to collect my fee and depart, if that is agreeable?”

  Holmes wordlessly reached into his pocket and withdrew a pound note, which he handed to the professor without so much as a thank you. He had a distracted look that I recognised: his keen mind was already at work, weighing and discarding facts, arranging them in various orders of disparate and seemingly unrelated events, seeking patterns within them. More often than not, this was the key phase in an investigation when he would achieve the breakthrough that led to a case’s successful conclusion. Today, however, there was no such satisfaction to be had.

  Four

  Tea with Lord Rowton

  Holmes got out his pipe, stuffed it with tobacco, not too tight, not too loose, and lit it. He did not say a word for many minutes, clearly troubled that a solution had yet to present itself. Eventually he turned to me and said, “Disraeli was deeply involved in the Boer conflict and no sooner does it begin than he is out of the House of Commons and into the Lords, only to succumb to a rapid decline in health. This decline means that he is no longer a voice of dissent when the Queen and Gladstone choose to abandon Africa.”

  “How do the Czar and the American President fit into this? Surely neither country cared one whit about the war?” I asked.

  “Intriguing as a global conspiracy might be, I should think this is a mere distraction from the meat of the matter,” Holmes said. “Instead, we should focus on Disraeli and to do that, I am of the opinion it would be worthwhile examining his medical records.”

  I gaped at him, and surely my jaw dropped open at the suggestion. “You cannot be serious?” But he obviously was. “It was one thing getting Wynter’s records—they were easily accessible to a man such as Newkirk. But this is a prime minister we are talking about.” I shook my head.

  “The man is dead and I sincerely doubt he would object to such an invasion of his privacy, especially if our examination turns up evidence that he died from something other than natural causes. In fact, I daresay the British people might want to know if a beloved figure was taken from them earlier than nature intended.”

  It was an astonishing suggestion. Could Holmes truly believe that Benjamin Disraeli might have been murdered and that our investigation was somehow related? It was absurd, and I said as much.

  “As a doctor, I would expect you to want to know the truth and as a British subject I would think that would double your interest.” His tone brooked no argument. This was a line of inquiry he was determined to follow no matter where it led him. “How hard will it be for you, a veteran and a member of the medical community, to find some way for us to inspect those records?”

  I had to pause and consider. “Damned near impossible, I should say. I will need to determine who treated Disraeli during his final illness, and the identity of the coroner.” The most obvious way to find the former was to ask my colleagues in the medical community, but I was reluctant to so soon after a similar series of inquiries into Wynter’s records. I did not want to run the risk of having suspicions raised this early in the investigation. After all, my name had been linked to Holmes in the popular press. If it became known that I—and by extension my companion—were trying to lay hands on the former prime minister’s medical records, it would raise more than just an eyebrow in certain quarters.

  I stoked the fire, and then spent an hour beside the hearth consulting my army medical notes and appointments book in search of the right man to reacquaint myself with. I daresay things would have gone more quickly had I a proper clerk, or even an organised filing system, but my practice had been rather haphazard since my discharge.

  After some time, I came across my notes regarding the treatment of Captain Colin Westfall, with whom I had served in Afghanistan. Suddenly I was alert, searching my memory for a piece of information that I knew lay somewhere in my recollections of that time. A passing comment, made under canvas… I had nursed him through a fever brought on by a tarantula bite, and we had spent several days together, the last of them—once Westfall was over the worst of it—playing cards and talking of our lives at home. He was going on about how close he had come to people of importance while doing nothing of the sort himself.

  Clearly, he was feeling low, the ravages of war and all that. It may have been merely a spider’s bite but it occurred while doing Her Majesty’s business far from home. I had inquired about those people he felt were of more importance than himself. He had some sort of connection, but I was confounding myself with not being able to conjure up the exact detail.

  Then I had it. Westfall had mentioned a most tenuous connection to the prime minister; he was related to Montagu William Lowry-Corry, who had been Disraeli’s private secretary until the latter’s death.

  In his fevered mind, being a soldier was of less import than secretary to the PM. One risked his life, the other merely avoided paper cuts, so in my mind there was no real comparison and I said as much to encourage his spirits. The little talk seemed to help him in some small way. I hoped he would recall me with kindness.

  I resolved to get in touch with Westfall as soon as possible. But first, I needed to find out what the official record had deemed to be Disraeli’s cause of death. All I could recall was pneumonia and gout, but I had a vague recollection there was more to it. I left Holmes burning his way through boxes of foreign cigars and filling our rooms with a variety of combative odours.

  * * *

  I made haste to St. James’s Square and the London Library, glad the unseasonal rain had abated, intending to seek out an old acquaintance: Lomax, the sub-librarian. The structure, by Thomas Carlyle, was always impressive to my eyes, with the sweeping grandeur of knowledge alive within its brick and mortar shell, but I did not pause to admire it that day. Instead, I hurried within and sought out my friend. As usual, he was rushing about, his spectacles askew on his sweaty face, his thinning hair flying every which way as his heels echoed out a tattoo on the cold stone floor that was a music all of its own. His suit jacket was threadbare around the cuffs and needed mending, I noted, but in his world there was never time for such
things.

  As he placed two thick volumes on a dusty shelf, he caught sight of me and broke into a weary smile. We only ever tended to meet these days when I needed something.

  “Dr. Watson, so good to see you again,” he said in a soft voice.

  I matched his volume and greeted him in turn, holding out a hand in friendship. He took it, then gestured that I follow him until each book in his care was safely back in its place. Finally, he led me to the tiny desk; at least I think it was a desk. For all I knew, it was merely a surface designed to hold the clutter of papers, journals, and more books in need of attention. There was no place for me to sit so I stood as he took his own small, well-worn wooden chair.

  “I assume you need help with some matter of research, and while I am more than happy to avail myself, surely whatever you need would be more easily found at the Royal College? We are just a humble resource here.” Indeed, the Royal College of Physicians was to be my next stop, but I felt the anonymity of the London Library would better suit my needs.

  “Indeed, but the subject of my enquiry is rather delicate,” said I. “I need back issues of all the London newspapers that covered the period when Disraeli died—say from the beginning of March until the end of April.” The request earned me a curious look, but when I was not forthcoming he merely nodded and scurried off into the stacks.

  Thankfully, it only took him a few minutes to find the relevant periodicals. He returned and placed the thick bundle in my outstretched arms, before leading me to a small cubicle, away from the general traffic of the other patrons. The light from the green-glass banker’s lamp was dim, forcing me to hold the papers closer than was comfortable. With my journal at the ready, I proceeded to relive the final tributes to one of the truly great figures of modern history.

  Benjamin Disraeli, it appeared, had long suffered from both gout—as I had recalled—and asthma, which was new information to me. Both were chronic conditions and in March, the latter appeared to develop into a nasty case of bronchitis. He took to his bed and on Easter Sunday he began to decline. He was incoherent by the following Monday, finally slipping into a coma from which he did not wake. There was little detail on his final days; his physicians had refused to comment on their patient’s condition to reporters.

  Reading on, I found it interesting that those in charge of his estate had refused a state funeral. Instead, there was a much more modest service held in his estate’s church in Hughenden on 26th April. Despite her grief, Queen Victoria did not attend, sending only primroses, apparently the man’s favourite flower. She also preferred to allow his various titles lapse into oblivion rather than pass them on to his surviving relatives.

  All of this struck me as most curious for a beloved popular figure. That got me interested, or perhaps my time with Holmes had made me more suspicious about the world within which I lived.

  I leant back in my chair, frustrated at the lack of detail concerning Disraeli’s condition at the end. I felt a growing desire to read the man’s medical files for myself and was now determined to see this through, folly or not. I thanked Lomax in a whisper and hurried out of the London Library. It was time to track down Captain Colin Westfall of the 66th Regiment of Foot.

  * * *

  Finding my former comrade and patient proved to be one of the easiest tasks of the entire affair. The regiment was stationed in London and I was able to send him a note, inviting him for a drink the following evening and he rapidly accepted.

  I was at something of a loose end the morning of our meeting; Holmes was off on some errand, the nature of which he had not divulged, so I was left to my own devices. Rather than sit in our stuffy rooms, I decided to hire a cab and pay Mrs. Wynter a visit. With no newspaper reports of her son’s death, Holmes and I knew little of his life outside the Royal Navy, his friends or even lovers. Perhaps his mother would be able to paint me a picture of her son, the better to aid our inquiries.

  Much of Shoreditch was distinctly middle class, but the streets on the periphery had seen better days. The street where Mrs. Wynter lived was ill lit and distinctly down at heel. I felt somewhat uncomfortable calling without an appointment; I hoped that as a woman alone she would be glad of my presence.

  I rapped on the door and heard it echo through the house. I knew to be patient, having noticed during our interview that she moved slowly, the result no doubt of arthritis or rheumatism. A minute passed but I waited, hearing movement from within. Finally, the footsteps grew louder and then the door opened. Mrs. Wynter squinted in the daylight but her eyes widened when she recognised me.

  “Dear me,” she said. “Have you found Norbert?” She was wearing old, well-worn clothing, dark in hue, clearly not intended for public view. The grey hair remained in a bun, held with some ornate comb. She was without jewellery, her expensive baubles no doubt tucked away until she next needed to impress someone.

  “Not as yet,” I replied, with as much confidence as I could muster.

  “Oh, do come in,” Mrs. Wynter said. She did well to mask her disappointment. She stepped back, pulling the door with her and I entered the hall, which was cool and full of shadows. It spoke of a once prosperous life, now fallen into disuse, surfaces covered by a thin layer of dust. The old woman beckoned for me to follow her into the sitting room.

  “Shall I put on some tea, Doctor?”

  “You needn’t bother, ma’am, I daresay I shall not keep you long,” I replied.

  “But I do want to hear what you and Mr. Holmes have discovered.” Her voice was eager, making her sound younger than her years. I had to couch my words carefully so as not to offer the widow false hope.

  “At present, Mr. Holmes and I are pursuing separate avenues of inquiry, gathering up as many facts as we can ascertain. Once gathered, Mr. Holmes will put his keen mind towards deciphering what it all means.”

  She nodded once, the resignation clear in her dull blue eyes now.

  I outlined where we had been and what little we had managed to verify. She nodded at each point and took it all in, seemingly satisfied with our efforts to date.

  “If you have nothing new to share, may I ask why you made the journey all the way out here?”

  “When we first met, we spoke about Norbert’s disappearance as a case but not about Norbert as a person. I would like to know something more about the sort of man he is.” I was very careful to refer to the man in the present tense; I did not want her to think that we thought him dead. Mrs. Wynter deserved our facts not our speculation. Even so a large part of me feared we would never find her son alive.

  At my words, she brightened considerably and adjusted herself in her seat. I took out my notebook and pencil, gesturing with them in her direction, silently asking permission to take notes. She nodded and then began.

  “As I told you and Mr. Holmes, we had Norbert late in life. That did not deter him from having a robust, playful childhood. My husband liked to sail so Norbert grew up as comfortable at sea as he was on land. It seemed inevitable he would enlist. He was just twelve when his father died. We were fortunate that my husband had left provision for his schooling. Norbert went to the Royal Navy College for cadet training until he was fifteen, then spent a further four years training on the Britannia.”

  When she fell silent, I asked her about close friends. She allowed that once he entered Her Majesty’s Royal Navy he was rarely at home and whatever friendships there had been fell into disuse.

  “Has he a sweetheart?” I ventured.

  Mrs. Wynter smiled at the question and turned to the small table beside her lace-covered chair. She reached for a framed photograph and presented it to me. In the frame was a picture of a young, moustache-less Norbert Wynter, not yet a lieutenant but in a midshipman’s uniform. Standing beside him was a young, slim girl of perhaps twenty. She had long, curled dark hair and was gazing more at her beau than at the photographer. At a glance, I could see she was in love with him.

  “Her name?”

  “Caroline Burdett.”


  I recorded the name, knowing I needed to seek her out to see if she possessed any correspondence from Norbert that might provide us with clues.

  “Are they engaged?”

  “I know it had been discussed but I do not believe he obtained her father’s blessing before shipping out on the Dido. They would have made a splendid match.” I could see dreams of grandchildren filling her eyes, mixing with the welling tears that were forming.

  “Do you remain in contact with Miss Burdett?”

  “Not at present,” Mrs. Wynter allowed. “Once we were told he was missing, she has not been to visit.”

  “Is there an address where I may find her?”

  I was given an address that I knew to be near the Quaker burial grounds and rose to head directly there. In normal circumstances it was a relatively short walk, no more than thirty minutes from Shoreditch to Islington, but because the air was thick with humidity it made it an uncomfortable one.

  I knocked twice on the front door and a servant answered, surprising me, since I expected the family to be of similarly modest means as Mrs. Wynter. She was wiping her hands on a cloth, traces of flour on her cuffs and stray hairs sticking out from a white cap.

  “Is Miss Caroline Burdett at home?”

  “Who should I say is callin’?” she asked in a thick cockney accent.

  I gave her my name and card, which she snatched from my outstretched hand, and led me to wait in the hall. The house was in a far better state than Mrs. Wynter’s home and it was clear the Burdett’s fortunes were still on a solid footing. Well-oiled older furniture stood side by side with far newer, more expensive pieces. It was a bright and welcoming place, which began to lift my spirits.

  Caroline Burdett came down the hall, looking almost the same as she had in Mrs. Wynter’s photograph, trim and well appointed in a green frock. She was certainly the most attractive woman I had interviewed in quite some time. She extended a hand in a forthright manner, which I took, and then she led us to a sitting room.