I paused my work and looked at him in great alarm.
“You were very rambunctious,” Wiggins added, though I was not sure he knew what the word meant. “I reckon you had ’im.”
“He was a skilled fighter,” Holmes said, his voice low and serious.
“Skilled like a sailor,” I said obliquely so as not to give Wiggins or Mrs. Hudson any ideas.
“Not at all similar, no,” said Holmes which came as a surprise. I continued to minister to him.
“What did you see?” I asked Wiggins.
“It were a man for starters, a good bit shorter than Mr. ’olmes. He was all covered up so I couldn’t see much of his face. But he moved liked a dandy.”
“No,” Holmes corrected, trying to move beneath my care, but I was having none of it. “He was trained in the Far East, perhaps India. He smelled of coriander, possibly a Sikh; he punched with his left hand and had some sort of weapon in his right. I believe you will find evidence of it on my coat.”
“Allow me to tend to you first,” I said, and resumed cleaning his wounds. None appeared to need suturing, which was a good sign. He would be terribly bruised and no doubt stiff and sore for some days to come, but he had been through worse during our brief partnership. As I completed dressing his injuries, Holmes carefully sipped his water and handed the tumbler back to Wiggins, who placed it on the table. Mrs. Hudson had retreated to the kitchen.
“Holmes, please begin your story from the moment you left,” I instructed.
“I left here for my walk as I had told you. And as young Wiggins here has noted, I do have set patterns. I have calculated several paths that enable me to establish in my own mind the state of the neighbourhood, which I can then extrapolate into what might be the current temperament of London. Last night, I began my walk on Baker Street and proceeded down Melcombe Street and through Dorset Square where I spent some time speaking with the local vagrants. From there I headed northwest and explored the streets in that direction.
“I was walking down Harewood Avenue when it became clear I was being followed. Yes, Watson, like you I assumed it was our pursuer from earlier in the day. I led my shadow back to Melcombe Street and then stepped into an alley intending to surprise him. He was a sly one, though, and understood my feint. He was prepared for me. We grappled, he getting the better of me with alarming ease, and I daresay he would have finished me had Wiggins not arrived and scared him off.”
“I could have chased ’im,” the urchin said. “But Mr. ’olmes had his bellows emptied so I figured he needed me more.”
“Quite right,” I said, reaching out to pat him in a fatherly way, but Wiggins was having none of it.
Holmes, though, reached into a pocket, wincing a bit in the process, and withdrew several coins. “Our rate is a shilling, but your rescue earns you a gold sovereign, I think.” Wiggins snatched the coin with speed, pocketing it in a blink. Given the state of our expenses, it was a most extravagant gesture.
“You might consider using that for a bath,” I said with a distinct sniff.
Wiggins grinned at me but didn’t agree or disagree with the suggestion. He tipped his cap and turned to leave.
“Thank you,” Holmes said to the lad. It was obvious how sincerely he meant it. “Be alert, there’s every chance he got a good look at you. I wouldn’t travel the streets alone for some time.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Wiggins said and saw himself out. A few seconds later we heard the street door bang closed.
“Holmes,” I said, turning to my friend, “I know you; you will want to think about what all this means. And I do, too, but first you need to be whole. And that means taking the time to heal. As your physician I am recommending you take to your bed and sleep.”
“As you wish, Watson,” Holmes said.
I will admit there was a dual purpose to my prescription. As I prepared a syringe with a sedative and rolled up his sleeve, I looked for evidence of recent drug activity. None of the marks appeared fresh, which I took to mean his system was clean of any other narcotics. Holmes said nothing as I administered the injection.
Once completed, I helped Holmes out of his coat and examined it carefully.
“The rips in the cloth are uniformly spaced apart and pierced the fabric with ease,” said he. “Five slices. This bears further study. Do not dispose of the garment.” His voice began to show the drug taking effect so I silenced him and eased him to his bed. He fell in a heap while I removed his shoes and then closed the door.
Left alone, the dawn shone through the windows as I began to put away my medical supplies.
First, there were the sailors attacking us. But now a foreign attacker was added to the mix. Two attacks on Holmes, the death of a former prime minister, a missing sailor—was there a red thread running through these seemingly disparate events? Something was most certainly astir, but as the sun rose redly and a new day began, I could not for the life of me fathom what it all meant. For that, I would need Holmes healthy and alert once more. As I waited for that to happen, I helped myself to the day’s first cup of tea.
Six
Cutting to the Chase
I was not surprised in the slightest that even though I gave Holmes a mild dose of the sedative, he slept straight through the day and that evening. While he recovered, I took care of routine matters, which included sending out notes to the sailors who had been close to Norbert Wynter on the Dido, names given to me by Miss Caroline Burdett. I then began chronicling the events of the case thus far, taking the opportunity to get things down on paper while they were still fresh in my mind. I was already convinced that the investigation would be well worth reading when all was done and dusted. It had all the elements of a penny dreadful potboiler.
Mrs. Hudson would stop by every now and then to check on the patient, and I expected Wiggins to do the same, but he had apparently taken one of our suggestions to heart, either to stay out of sight or to bathe. My money was on the one that did not involve a rendezvous with water.
It was the following morning, as I was completing my perusal of The Times, when Holmes finally emerged from his room. His eyes were a little unfocused but I could tell he was feeling better. His right cheek and hands were covered in dark purple bruises and he moved stiffly. I got him some water and asked Mrs. Hudson to prepare a large breakfast.
“How are you feeling?”
“Both sore and stiff, as you might imagine, but on the whole I feel better than I have any right to,” he replied. “Where is my coat?”
“Rather than get right back to work, Holmes, take some time to loosen your limbs and eat something. The coat is right here and we may examine it together after you have some sustenance. It will certainly make you feel better.”
“If you insist,” he said and looked about with impatience for the food.
“Mrs. Hudson will have it along momentarily,” said I. “In the meantime, go wash and put on some fresh clothes. Those, I think, are done for.”
We ate in passable silence, but I could tell he was humouring me more than actually hungry. His eyes were constantly darting towards the coat, which hung on the back of the couch. When we had finished the meal, he rose from the table, took up the coat, and sat in his armchair by the fire. He fingered the five identical tears in the fabric.
“The weapon was in his hand, almost as if it was an extension of himself,” Holmes mused. “I have read of such weapons, but will need to refresh my mind.” He rattled his fingertips across the pad of his thumb as though drumming out an inaudible tune.
“Before you do that, let us review the other night. Exactly when did all this happen?”
“Wiggins brought me here at what time?”
“It was early, maybe half past five in the morning. He was making quite the racket given the hour. It is a surprise half the street haven’t been banging on our door to see what all the fuss was about.”
“He took time to walk with me and the fight lasted only a few minutes. But the actual stalking took ov
er an hour, so…”
“Were you intending to walk all evening?”
“Not at first,” Holmes admitted. “But once I began walking and thinking and speaking with people, always looking for more resources much like Wiggins and his urchin brethren, I admit I allowed myself to get carried away.”
“Let us address why this might have happened. Why would an Indian, if that is what he was, attack you?”
“We have bothered someone, that much is obvious, and they want us to cease our investigation into poor Wynter. I have no other case so that is the only possible answer, which makes me all the more determined to press on with our investigation.”
“But so far the only people we have made inquiries of are the Admiralty. Surely they would not hire an Indian to assault you?” I observed. “After all, they have already sent their own men to dissuade us from proceeding.”
“Quite right, Watson, but all that means is someone else knows.”
“Someone other than the Admiralty?”
“Watson, at present we know the Admiralty wants us to cease seeking Wynter’s whereabouts or fate. We have no conclusive evidence to show it was the Admiralty behind this. They could, after all, be following orders from a different quarter of the government.”
“A fair point,” said I. “So the Admiralty knows and… someone, some other party is involved?”
“There is a drain of information, leaking out of the Admiralty, and to someone with the resources to hire a foreign assassin. Interesting, but that word derives from the Arabic hashishiyyin or ‘hashish-users’. It was a sect that would dose themselves and then kill their opponents.”
“Are you suggesting your attacker was under some narcotic influence?”
He allowed himself a broad smile. “Not at all, but there is something very ritualistic about the way my attacker worked, and it made me think of that group. His moves were quite precise and well practised. Given your far more thorough knowledge of human anatomy, please confirm whether the following is consistent with my injuries.” With that, Holmes rose from his seat and began walking the length of our sitting room. He paused and pantomimed ducking into the alleyway. Then he took a large step from that space and turned on his heel. Now he was the attacker and walked towards the alley, paused, and tensed himself.
For the next few minutes I was given a performance the likes of which I had never seen before. Holmes was his assailant, moving in approximation of how the other man might have moved, striking measured blows into thin air. With each blow, I was mentally filling in Holmes’s figure, and I was impressed, as each one seemed likely to have resulted in a wound my friend had indeed suffered. It was a violent ballet. As he finished, a final attack interrupted by the well-timed arrival of Wiggins, Holmes appeared spent. He would never admit to being fatigued by such efforts, but he was still recovering.
“I daresay you have recreated the fight most carefully and yes, each blow you demonstrated would indeed have resulted in your bruises. The sweeping motion of your right hand suggests that he held five blades in his hand. And from your recreation, I can conclude he left more lasting marks than you managed.”
“Five blades in one hand, you say,” Holmes mused, breathing hard. “That does sound familiar. I will consult my books, but for now that gives us a starting point.”
“How on earth did young Wiggins manage to get you away from so deadly an opponent?”
He stopped his pacing and looked at me, as if my question had thrust right into the heart of the matter.
“A most excellent question. As I recall, the mere act of discovery slowed down my assailant. No doubt he feared the boy would summon the police. We’ll have to ask him to verify that piece of the story.”
“I say we go looking for this man.”
“I should like to find him, yes,” Holmes said. “But first, I want to know who he is and why he sought me out. The imperative being to learn for sure that he was sent to kill me because of our current investigation as opposed to a grudge held over from some previous case.” Holmes steepled his fingers together and considered, no doubt thinking back to the few cases we had worked together since the spring when our unlikely collaboration began.
For myself, I could certainly think of none that would result in an Indian assassin tracking us down.
“To review then,” he said, “once we began making inquiries at the Admiralty, no one would confirm to us that Norbert Wynter is alive, dead, Missing in Action, or a deserter. We cannot obtain his military records. But something is going on, something that began this spring, first with Wynter’s disappearance in Africa and the near-concurrent rapid decline and death of Benjamin Disraeli. Which reminds me, while I slept, were we fortunate enough to obtain the latter’s papers from Lord Rowton?”
“They are expected today, as a matter of fact.”
“Excellent. Now, given that Disraeli’s death is a somewhat tenuous avenue of inquiry, we must also pursue a more linear one, and track down the commander of the Dido. He may well have information concerning Wynter’s fate. The ship may well be out at sea, but I think the Admiralty can tell us that much without obfuscation.”
“What if there is a connection, however tenuous, between Wynter and Disraeli?”
“Watson, we need facts before we can make suppositions. Anything else would be guesswork and I dislike guesswork. Instead, while you read the papers, I will learn more about my would-be assassin’s weapon. I am certain I have read something about it.”
“I would think importing a killer speaks of a certain desperation,” I offered. “As do two different agencies sending men after us.”
“I agree, but we have not been about this investigation long, which leads me to think this Indian was already in Britain. The attack suggests that you and I might well have been followed by one or both sources since we left the Admiralty.”
“For asking questions?”
“For asking the kinds of questions someone does not want answered,” he replied. He paused to massage his temples and despite his lengthy sleep, he still struck me as deeply fatigued. Holmes appeared to draw the same conclusion and rose to his feet, testing his limbs. “I need to take a walk and stretch my mind while we wait.”
I rose in alarm. “The last walk you took did not turn out so well,” I said. “Allow me to accompany you.”
“You should be here to receive the papers from Lord Rowton. We do not know when it will arrive and I would hate to waste any more time than absolutely necessary.”
“For once, I disagree with your assessment, Holmes. This is not time sensitive. Wynter is gone and shall remain gone if we walk an hour or a day. Disraeli’s papers may well prove fascinating reading, but in all honesty I doubt we will learn much from them pertinent to our case, and certainly even less regarding Wynter. Besides, Mrs. Hudson will be here to take delivery, so hardly any time will be wasted.”
I expected him to argue with me, but for once he ceded to my reasoning and we began our descent to the street. As we strolled along Baker Street, I continued to express my doubts that Disraeli’s papers would prove to be anything other than sad reading. The connection between the two matters remained elusive to me.
The air was warm but fortunately not brutal enough to roast us as we strolled the nearby streets. I forced myself to count between ten and twenty steps before daring to look over my shoulder so as not to appear to have a nervous habit. Thankfully, no one gave us any notice nor did anyone look out of place. Perhaps the attackers determined Holmes’s injuries meant they could be quit of us.
Our walk tired him out after a few streets, so I steered him back to our rooms, poured him some tea, and watched as he drifted off to sleep in his chair. While he napped, there was a soft chime of the doorbell. I opened it to see a man in a livery suit, carrying a large box tied with string. As I took it from him, I noted how heavy it was and wished to offer the man something for his trouble. Instead, he merely tipped his hat and said he would return to collect the box in the morning. I was gl
ad of this, as I had expected him to stay and keep watch on my researches after Lord Rowton’s words that his man would be close by.
Holmes slept on as I untied the box and began removing ledgers, notebooks and loose sheaves of paper. Much of the latter was covered in what I took to be Lord Rowton’s handwriting—correspondence between the Prime Minister and Parliament, the Queen, and subjects of the realm. It was a treasure trove, no doubt. I quickly sorted the materials into easily digestible piles: domestic affairs, military matters, and politics. It was also clear Lord Rowton was circumspect with Disraeli’s effects, letting me see only materials dating from 1879 to 1881, anything that might be connected to the South African affair, but nothing more.
With a fresh cup of tea beside me, I began reading the international dispatches. In time, I realised there was less there about the Boer conflict than I had imagined. Instead, I turned my attention to the general correspondence, amongst which I found a letter between Lord Rowton and Lord Barrington, the latter having attended Disraeli while Rowton was in the south of France. It seemed to show evidence of the beginning of Disraeli’s illness, Barrington reporting having to physically support the great man about the house. He also mentioned a walk taken in the countryside, during which the great man said, “I have no strength left, let us return.” Soon after, the bronchitis set in.
Finally I found the copy of the article by Dr. Joseph Kidd, Disraeli’s personal physician, to which Rowton had referred at our meeting. I knew Kidd only by reputation, apparently a cold, dislikeable fellow. He was a homeopath, no true doctor as far as I was concerned, but a favourite of Her Majesty. His article purported to be an account of Disraeli’s death, but did not tell me much that I did not already know. Disraeli had previously suffered from Bright’s disease, bronchitis and asthma, meaning their recurrence at the end was not surprising. If Kidd were to be believed, Disraeli began deteriorating during the winter and his condition became severe one particularly cold night in March. “Bronchitis developed the next morning with distressing asthma, loss of appetite, fever and congestion of the kidneys. Notwithstanding prompt treatment he began to lose ground,” Kidd wrote. In fact, he was wasting away until the final fortnight, when things gained speed. To me, that was a curiosity that bore further investigation, but clearly Kidd had merely seen a seventy-six-year-old man succumbing to a variety of illnesses, powered by unremitting gout. Kidd was clearly little more than a quack, prescribing claret for Disraeli’s gout and arsenic for his cough.
Murder at Sorrow's Crown Page 9