Murder at Sorrow's Crown

by Steven Savile

I made a note of this, trying to find a blank page where I could begin a proper chronology of events from January.

  “What’s funny is that he should have been at the forefront of my thoughts when you asked to meet me. The man owed me three quid.”

  I looked up sharply from my notebook and studied the man, raising my eyebrows in question. Was this the same lack of funds that Miss Burdett had mentioned? Three pounds was no small sum.

  “He was a great man to break bread with, have a few drinks, but he was the worst card player I ever saw. Owed me three, owed the ship’s doctor another two, and probably a few bob here and there to others.”

  “All from cards? That is a substantial sum of money.”

  He accepted his tea from the waitress with a wink. “Bert was good company, but it was getting clear to one and all he had a bit of a problem. Always took long odds, always tried to bluff his way through a bad hand and we could tell. To tell the truth, Doctor, I think he was in a deeper hole than most of us knew. He was beginning to complain he was short of funds to send home to his mother.”

  I nodded and kept adding notes. I had initially pictured Norbert Wynter as the model seaman, the perfect son, but clearly he was far more ordinary, which I oddly found to be a disappointment.

  “What do you think happened to him?”

  “By the time I realised he hadn’t come back on board, alive or dead, I asked around but no one seemed to know. Eventually the Chief Engineer told me to stop asking so I suspected it was something bad and knew enough not to ask again.”

  Now that was odd. Could it be they were covering up Wynter’s desertion? No, it would be something the men talked about, ordered to avoid the subject or not. But why not ask about Wynter’s whereabouts? And of course it wasn’t just one man we were talking about, even if Wynter was the focus of our investigation. Twenty men had been listed as deserters along with him. There should have been more people asking questions.

  “There was definitely something strange going on, Doctor. Something bad happened ashore and we were never given a report. Lots of unanswered questions came back to England with the Dido.”

  I shot him a questioning glance and he elaborated. “How on earth could we be beaten so badly? We weren’t fighting a trained army but a pack of locals, mostly farmers. As far as I’m concerned, that means our commanders were at fault. Perhaps something happened, something even worse than the defeats reported in the papers, that they are trying to hide. That would mean forbidding us to speak of it, even amongst ourselves. Never experienced anything like it in all my days at sea and I was on three tours before that one.”

  That made sense to me, given the order and rigid code of conduct expected aboard Her Majesty’s vessels.

  We talked a little more but it was clear Raskill could not tell me anything of further use. I paid for both drinks, which earned me a thunderclap of a thump on the back, and we parted company. Working out the pain of his parting gift, I walked east, heading for the library of the Royal Society of Medicine and more solitary studies.

  I sat down with several volumes and lost myself in reading and note taking, letting myself be distracted by the joys of medical research. I was interested to note that there had been an increasing number of cases involving death from the castor bean extract, known as ricin. In 1870, a small child named Francis Murray died after eating a few castor beans in San Francisco. Two miners had died in Africa only a few years before, a bizarre-sounding case in which it appeared that the men had committed suicide by eating the beans. They apparently were at outs with their foreman and were constantly being whipped for slovenly work habits. The two men were starved in addition to the physical abuse and grew increasingly miserable. The beans were on hand and the men somehow knew that it could provide a permanent relief from their deprivations. They smuggled enough to be a lethal dose for the two of them into the mine one day, consumed them and soon after dropped dead, actually stiffening and blocking the mine shaft, a final act of revenge against their abuser.

  I wanted to read more about it, see if they were examined by a doctor, but could never find more than the one reference. I admit to having allowed myself to be easily distracted by other topics, not all of them remotely related to the case at hand. For a change, there was no sense of danger, no threat to life or limb, and it felt like a marvellous respite from the previous few days. As it was, by the time I looked up, I realised I had read my way well past my normal lunchtime. Once I reached that conclusion, my stomach confirmed the news and demanded attention.

  I made my way in the direction of Baker Street, but an odd sound caused me to quickly look over my shoulder. I saw the usual assortment of tradesmen and servants out doing the daily shopping, but a little further back was a silhouette of a figure that most certainly did not belong. It looked alarmingly very much like one of the men who accosted me just days before. Having avoided the Admiralty since our first and only visit, this was of some concern and made me wonder if I had been followed ever since?

  I hurried my pace, seeking a place to avoid confrontation and still address my growing hunger. A few buildings down the street, I stopped off at the Horse and Hounds, a public house I frequented. As a place where I was known to the staff, I felt a level of protection from my pursuer should I be proven correct. I ordered a pint and a kidney pie from the barman, an older man with a rough accent and demeanour, and took a seat. I continually stared at the entrance, scanning each patron who entered. My follower had not bothered to enter but could easily be lurking outside on the street.

  The barman brought over my pint, sloshing the suds on the table without apology, which was all part of the tavern’s rough charm. Soon after he appeared with my pie, and the man seemed barely able to manage the hot dish without it threatening to find its way onto my stomach, rather than inside it.

  “I say, are you new to this profession?” I asked in an irritated voice. I had not seen the man before, and hoped I would not again.

  “Not at all, guv’nor,” he replied.

  “Well, you should be far more careful,” I told him.

  “Right you are. If you don’t mind my saying, guv’nor, I’m thinkin’ you should be careful yourself.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “It is, it is,” he said, and I grew bewildered at his words. “Men such as yerself ’ave to be careful. You spend all day writin’ notes, you’re bound to make your hand sore.”

  “How the devil could you…?” I began then stopped myself. Only one man could look at me and know what I had been doing all day. “Holmes?”

  “Quite right, guv’nor,” he confirmed, a smile cracking his wrinkled face. “You see, you have fresh callouses developing on the fingers you use to grip your pencil. The only way you could have developed them so quickly was to spend the entire day at work. Which also explains you having such a late meal, my friend, especially for a man of such steady and predictable habits as yourself.”

  “Why the devil are you in disguise?” Much as I desired to eat my kidney pie, I needed to understand what Holmes was playing at. I had the distinct impression he was up to no good.

  Suddenly, he was seated opposite me, wiping at the spilled beer. “Given the week’s activity, it appeared the time had come to resume my practice with disguises. You just so happened to wander in here while I was on my very first shift as Bertram, the new hire.”

  “Do you mean to say you intend on remaining in the tavern’s employ?”

  “Not for long, although it should have occurred to me to adopt another persona and practise my disguises while bringing in the necessary income to cover my expenses. On the other hand, had we not needed the income, we never would have embarked upon so interesting a case, so it is a case of hardship leading to good fortune.”

  “Well, I suppose that is one way of looking at the matter.”

  “Please try the pie; I need to know if I should be recommending it. I watched the chef earlier and I believe he used the appropriate kind of kidney.”

 
“That is most reassuring.” I sniffed the air above my plate and everything appeared in order.

  “Holmes, I do believe I am being followed. I spotted a large hulk of a figure on my way down the street,” I said. Holmes narrowed his eyes in concern.

  “People that size would be more of Hampton’s men,” he said, contempt coming through his accented speech.

  “How was your day? You certainly left early enough,” I asked.

  “No one was following me. I first sought out Wiggins,” Holmes explained. “I wanted to hire him and his gang for some work.”

  I risked a bite of the pie, which tasted fine if a bit hot, and not at all of cat or unlucky customer, so I let it cool and cautiously inquired, “What sort of work?”

  “The usual sort of errand running and the like,” said he.

  “Don’t you think the presence of an assassin makes this too dangerous for children?”

  “Watson, despite appearances, believe me, that gang is perfectly capable of taking care of themselves. In fact, I might wonder if the Indian gentleman is not the one who should be worried. If it makes you feel any better about my intentions, I am merely tasking the boys to go down to the docks and keep an eye out for vessels that might be importing castor beans. Now that we know what hastened Disraeli’s death, we need to find the source and see if we can trace it back to someone with a motive. Wiggins accepted the assignment without fear or hesitation. No doubt he and his companions will be perfectly safe with the usual ruffians and mud larks down by the water. If the Indian is still around, he will be stalking me, not them.”

  “I don’t like it,” I repeated, but he ignored me, brightening at a fresh thought.

  “Speaking of the Indian, I was right, I had read about his weapon before. I had never seen one, just a drawing, so it took some time before I could properly identify it. The device is called a panja, or more commonly a bagh naka. It is placed over one’s knuckles with the blades attached to a crossbar. What’s interesting is that it was first used by assassins, but was also used in a form of wrestling they call naki ka kusti.”

  “What on earth does that translate to?”

  “Claw wrestling,” Holmes said. “As recently as two decades ago, it remained one of the most popular forms of entertainment on the subcontinent. The sharp blades are designed to tear through skin and rend muscle and sinew.”

  “Holmes, you were lucky. You could have easily been killed. This most certainly should prove to you that Wiggins and the others should not be involved in this matter.”

  “As you say, guv’nor,” said he, resuming his role. He rose, a dirty rag in one hand. Then he caught my attention and with a flick of his eyes, directed me to look towards a corner of the tavern. In the shadows, lit by a flickering candle on the table, the hulking man in old, worn clothing sat, hunched over a glass of beer. He had on a bowler hat, dented on one side, and appeared totally out of place. How he had entered and been served without my notice was concerning.

  I nodded just once to confirm that I had spotted this man and tried to silently communicate my confusion. Who was this man and was he truly sent by Hampton? Holmes ignored the signals and hurried off to the kitchen. As a result, I was left to self-consciously complete my meal, certain the man was watching me. I wanted to look in his direction but dared not for fear of tipping my hand. Unlike Holmes, who blended in perfectly with the tavern staff, this man was entirely out of place and most conspicuous if one knew where to look.

  Maybe he had some sixth sense, for the man suddenly rose, placed some coins on his table and began to leave the tavern. He studiously avoided coming anywhere near me, but the course he took was awkward and actually attracted my attention rather than deflecting it; but again I was looking for it. The other patrons took no notice of him, presumably because of his slovenly appearance, but I took note of his attire to be sure that if I saw him on the street I would know him again. I had little doubt he would be waiting outside in order to follow me or Holmes, depending on which of us was his quarry.

  I stood, leaving payment for my meal on the table. I did not leave a tip for Holmes; we needed the extra coin to pay Mrs. Hudson and it was better served in my pocket than his. As I passed him en route to the door, he whispered, “I will be leaving shortly. Let him follow you, but lead him nowhere. I shall follow and observe.”

  Stepping into the cooling early evening air, I took a few paces to my right to orientate myself and to scan for the vagabond spy. Sure enough, he was peering through the window of a tobacconist, able to use the reflection in the dirty glass to spot people leaving the Horse and Hounds. I needed to busy myself before Holmes emerged so I stopped to admire the goods of a confectioner, their pastel colours and rich chocolates proving rather tempting, but the pie sat heavily in my stomach, putting me off any added indulgence. Finally the tavern door opened and Holmes, still in disguise, emerged. The moment I saw him, I turned to my left and began walking.

  Had I not known I was being followed, not just by the unknown man, but by my companion, I do not think my instincts would have informed me—they were both adequate if not adept at the art of surveillance. I had to think quickly and go nowhere near Baker Street, but also appear as if I had a destination in mind. I turned onto New Oxford Street, walking in the shadows of The Bowery before turning onto Bloomsbury Way, nearing the Gardens. The streets were crowded given both the hour and the people leaving the recently closed British Museum just a few streets north. I then made a hasty left onto Bury Place, a less crowded street, giving my pursuer a clearer line of sight, and therefore, I hoped, giving Holmes a chance to see just how skilled he was when it came to concealing himself. No doubt my partner would see this as some grand sport while to me it was a nuisance. I would have given anything to be at home in Baker Street with a good book.

  I could not look over my shoulder to see whether my pursuer was still on my tail without giving myself away, so I adopted one of Holmes’s strategies. I began listening for distinct footfalls so I would recognise any that followed me on my next turn. I went left onto Gilbert Place, heading back towards the closed museum. I slowed my gait and listened, picking up several patterns of sound, but I needed to winnow down the options further so I followed the road’s curve and turned onto Great Russell Street directly before the museum. A few familiar patterns were now more easily heard, so I continued on my way, figuring the challenge was to keep moving long enough for Holmes to get his fill and then disappear so I could go home. I turned left onto Montague Street, beginning to work my way back to Baker Street and hoping to lose my devoted follower in the crowds of Russell Square.

  I was fortunate to accomplish that very thing by ducking behind some overgrown bushes and watched with delight as the legs of my pursuer went by me in one direction and then another. I had to stifle back a laugh when I then saw Holmes’s legs pass me by. He could now track the man to his heart’s content. My work was done.

  * * *

  It was two hours later when a well-satisfied Holmes finally returned to Baker Street. He wearily took his seat and told me what I had missed.

  “You did a splendid job of leading him on a merry dance, Watson. I had ample time to study him and deduce who his employer might be.”

  “I gather this new development is related to the Wynter case and not the Disraeli matter?” I ventured.

  “Quite right. But first, allow me to share my deductions. While your shadow was adequately skilled, he was not particularly gifted. His clothing was unsuitable; too poor to blend into his surroundings. Additionally, he did a bad job of choosing his shoes, which as I am sure you noticed, were highly polished boots, the very type worn by sailors in Her Majesty’s Navy. Your suspicion Hampton sent him to watch you was an accurate one. The Admiralty have been watching us every step of the way. He was similarly inexperienced in the act of surveillance, altering his pacing erratically rather than hanging back, from which one can infer that he was unaccustomed to this sort of business. Such frequent changes of speed actually call
ed attention to his activities. Finally, when you gave him the slip, he stopped and turned in a complete circle, signalling to anyone who wished to notice that he was seeking you out.”

  “Did you follow him?”

  “I did, for long enough to confirm that whoever sent him on this errand did so after our visit to the Admiralty.”

  “That’s a given by now, Holmes, surely? My question remains, what might his intentions be? Merely to follow me or to cause me some harm? And if it is the latter, then we have two shadows, which doubles the risk of injury to Wiggins and his lot. I must again object to involving children in this matter.”

  “And I state again that Wiggins and his street Arabs are fine and may prove more useful to your safety than you imagine. They know these streets better than you and certainly better than anyone Hampton could send.

  “Watson, we have ruffled some important feathers. It is still a leap of logic to say we know beyond all reasonable doubt that the former prime minister was killed, but it is looking like a very real possibility. We know one trail leads to India. We know another leads to Africa, but not if the two combine. We know there are people clearly troubled at our investigation of both threads. What comes next may help us solidify exactly who they may be and why they have gone to such lengths.”

  Eight

  The East India Company

  We were just sitting down to breakfast the next morning when there was a pounding of feet coming up the stairs. Wiggins came bursting through the door without waiting for an invitation. He was dressed as he had been the last time I saw him, and every bit as filthy. The boy was breathless from his headlong flight. He wiped a hand from his brow to the back of his head, sweeping his matted forelock over his scalp as he struggled to catch his breath. Urgency was writ bright across the boy’s ruddy features. Holmes merely gestured for him to take a seat at our table. The youth settled himself, chest still rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to bring his breathing under control. The lad grabbed for a crumpet, but Holmes raised a finger, stopping him dead in the act of pilfering from my plate.