“First your report,” Holmes instructed, “then you may eat to your heart’s content.”
“Right you are,” Wiggins said, making no effort to mask his desire for my breakfast. “Me an’ the boys spent the early morning down at the docks like you asked, lookin’ for anything out of the ordinary, chattin’ up the dockers. I wanted to get me ’ands on the customs dockets, but you know how it is, they just won’t show those to anyone.” He noticed my expression, which was one of disbelief. “I can read, Doctor, leastways nuff for this business. Anyway, I don’t exactly look like no official.” The boy looked down at his filthy rags. It was impossible to argue that point with him.
“Did you offer bribes?” Holmes questioned. “You recall our agreement includes expenses and that would have most certainly qualified.”
I gave Holmes an exaggeratedly scandalised look to express my displeasure at the lessons being taught this boy, but my companion ignored me entirely. I rather think he enjoyed playing with my sensibilities at times.
“Well, I would have tried that approach had I the funds,” Wiggins said, all but turning his scruffy pockets out.
“And just what did you do with the gold sovereign I gave you?”
“A boy’s got to eat, sir.” And with that Wiggins snatched the crumpet from my plate and took a huge bite from it. He chewed noisily, gulping it down.
“Your report,” Holmes instructed once more, his tone growing severe. The lad did not need telling a third time.
“Those beans you asked about didn’t arrive in London. Leastways, if they did, it weren’t in the last year.”
I found that report disturbing because castor beans, like any organic material, have a finite lifespan. Those beans would not have kept more than a few weeks. Holmes, though, seemed unmoved by the news. No doubt his mind was already on other things, like where else and by what other means they might have entered the country. This time he allowed Wiggins to wolf down the rest of my crumpet.
“As I assume you know, Wiggins, much of the trade from India was directed by the East India Company.”
“I’ve heard of them,” he said, morsels of crumpet falling from his mouth. He scooped them up with a dirt-encrusted finger and licked them down. “Dunno more than that.”
“The East India Company dates back to Queen Elizabeth. It was primarily responsible for establishing trade routes between England and the Far East. Although the title suggests it was limited to the Indian subcontinent, in point of fact the company’s reach extended as far as China.” Clearly Holmes was intent on giving the street Arab a history lecture. “Tea, foodstuffs, fabrics, jewellery and more was imported across the Empire until the Crown saw fit to terminate their charter, putting them out of business in ’74.”
“Where do you learn so much?” the boy asked, unable to hide his surprise.
“I read, young Wiggins. All the knowledge in the world is there to be found if you have a mind to look for it. I suggest you begin doing the same for yourself if you hope to rise above the rank of street Arab.”
While I appreciated his efforts to encourage the boy, I suspected the words were falling on deaf ears. Wiggins’s world was concerned with daily survival on the streets as opposed to mastering complex history texts and the lessons of life therein. Perhaps Holmes had reached the same conclusion, as he swiftly returned to the matter in hand.
“You have been invaluable in ruling out a London point of entry for the castor beans. I will now dedicate the day to researching other locations. After all, castor oil continues to be sold so the product must be entering the country on a regular basis.”
Wiggins, now done with my crumpet and hungrily eyeing two rashers of bacon I intended to consume myself, looked about the sitting room and waved his hands in the air. “Is that why you have all these maps out?”
“Indeed,” Holmes confirmed.
I felt I needed to remind my companion of our true purpose, for what little good it might do. “Holmes, pray tell, how does the exact route the castor beans came from India have any bearing on poor Wynter’s disappearance? Or have we cast aside our true investigation to chase grand conspiracies? I will admit it feels to me that every fresh question we ask and lead we follow takes us further and further from investigating his fate, and Mrs. Wynter is awaiting our report. I trust you are aware we have nothing of substance to share with her. Our focus has moved from Africa to India, and I cannot believe for a moment that is where the bodies are buried, metaphorical or otherwise.”
“Your protests make a certain sense, Watson, I will concede that, but if we follow the threads of the story, which like a tapestry appear unremarkable until they are combined to create a vivid image, we will find satisfaction, I am sure of it. Wynter’s disappearance was the beginning of the path and by looking under every stone, we will find the clues to refine the direction and determine what became of the man, because something most assuredly has happened to him, and it is a something worthy of covering up and killing for, no less. Our investigations have stirred up a veritable beehive and I was nearly stung once. That attack alone confirms we are moving in the right direction. It is my intention to draw out the stinger without getting stung again.”
I confess I must have looked horrified at the notion because Holmes smiled that knowing smile of his. “Now, don’t look so alarmed. I have no intention of letting the tiger claw have its fill of me.”
“A real tiger? Here? In London?” Wiggins asked, jaw dropping at the prospect of what to him must have seemed like a mythical beast doing for the detective.
“Not at all,” I corrected and noted that during Holmes’s speech, the boy had made off with my bacon, even though I hadn’t seen his hands move. That was an interesting skill.
“My attacker that night you came to my aid used a weapon shaped to resemble the outstretched paw of a tiger. Your arrival was most fortuitous,” Holmes said. He rose and rummaged through a stack of books on the other side of the sitting room, his long finger tracing a few spines before he found the desired volume, and returned to show a drawing of the wretched device. Wiggins’s eyes grew wide, both out of fear and I daresay some envy.
“You know, Watson, the mention of bees reminds me that I have had them on my mind of late. When this case is done, I want to look into them at length. Would you mind?”
Whether I minded or not made no difference to Holmes, of course, he was merely informing me what form his next obsession would take. Once he made up his mind, he was set on a course of action. No doubt there would be a hive in the garden of 221B before the month was out.
“As we have noted, whilst castor beans are indigenous to three regions, East Africa, the Mediterranean Basin and India, a confluence of seeming coincidences, including the fact that my attacker also originates from the Indian subcontinent would have me willing to wager that the now defunct East India Company played some part in this.”
This deduction puzzled me, given that the company had paid out the final dividend on its stock seven years ago and dissolved. I could not see how it could possibly have any bearing on our case. I said as much. “Consider this, Watson: amongst other duties, Benjamin Disraeli was a member of a select committee that in 1852 was tasked with considering how best to rule the subcontinent, and Disraeli himself proposed eliminating the governing role of the East India Company.” He rose from his seat. “While you muse on that, I must go out for a time, but I will return later,” he promised.
Without another word, Holmes tossed a shilling to Wiggins for the previous day’s work, insisted he be more circumspect with his spending this time, and hastened to his bedroom. Minutes later, clad in a fresh disguise, he departed.
Left with no instructions, it fell to me to tend the fire and update my account of this most curious case. In other words, I was left to wait and wonder.
Nine
A Visit to the Club
“I have your tea, sir,” a voice said in the darkness, both gentle, soothing, and not a little hypnotic, or so it seemed to my
waking mind.
My eyelids fluttered and the aroma of fresh and strongly brewed tea greeted me. Leaning over me was a footman in the finest livery. The man had a slight hook to his nose and his hair was slicked back, revealing hair blacker than black and a widow’s peak. He was tall and thin, maybe forty from his complexion. But as I gained full wakefulness, I realised I was sitting in my own chair in my own sitting room, having fallen asleep in Baker Street, not some gentlemen’s club.
My bewilderment rapidly vanished and I exclaimed, “Holmes!” earning a chuckle as he poured out two cups of tea with a polished manner that he rarely exhibited in his true persona. Once the teapot was placed on a tray, he stepped out of shoes designed to raise his height by an inch. He then relaxed his tie and unbuttoned his waistcoat before settling down in his chair.
“How did I do, Watson?” My companion appeared to be in high spirits, and I grew eager to hear the full account of his most recent exploits, but saw he awaited a genuine reply.
“I confess you are a far better footman than barman,” I offered, stirring my tea.
Sipping from his own cup, the steam corkscrewing before his face and obscuring his distinctly Roman nose, he laughed and sat back. “Quite so.”
“Where did you rush off to?”
“I had a theory I wanted to test immediately. I left the building through a rear window, accessing the street from an oblique angle. Sure enough, a man who could only have been your shadow’s thinner brother was waiting several doors down. He tried to hide behind a newspaper, but being two days old, it was an obvious feint. Instead, I took up a spot in an alley and it was my turn to observe him.
“Around half past eleven, he was relieved by a different fellow. Neither made any real attempt at being discreet, clearly bored with the task. As the first left, I took up the trail and followed him.”
I sipped the tea and nodded, certain where this trail would lead. “The Admiralty?”
“Quite so. Now we know we have Her Majesty’s Navy keeping watch. Thankfully, we are more adept at our work on land than they are.”
“But why would Hampton keep us under watch? We’ve gone nowhere near the Admiralty or inquired anything further about Wynter.”
“Ah, Watson, Hampton is a man following orders. My question now becomes: under whose command does he serve? I suspect this answer will not be found in any official charter.”
“You have your suspicions, of course,” said I.
“A few, but nothing with proof so they are useless to mention,” he said, finally taking a seat by me, all pretence of service coming to an end.
“Why on earth are you dressed as a footman?” I asked.
“When one trail grows cold, we pick up the next likely thread. What did we learn this morning?”
“The beans did not arrive via London,” I said.
“True, but what else did we learn?”
I gave that some thought, reviewing the lessons imparted to young Wiggins. “The East India Trading Company.”
“Quite so,” he said.
“But if they are no longer in the business, where did you take off to in that outfit?”
“That first costume was merely to leave without any obvious fellow following along. I wore it as I went to the library. There I did some rather tedious research into the East India Company’s final years, compiling a listing of its final corporate officers. I then spent some time cross-referencing the names with current corporate boards, seeing if someone may have wound up in a position of still importing from India.”
“Were you successful?”
Holmes shook his head and his shoulders sagged a bit in his chair.
“It all felt like such wasted time, but then I realised that the company had investors, shareholders and the like. I wondered what became of these men once they were cashiered after the East India Stock Dividend Redemption Act was passed in 1873. By that point, the last vestiges of the once grand company were merely dealing with tea. Their other commodities, including castor beans, were taken over by other companies.
“Further research led me to a series of ledgers that appear to have been among the last the company maintained before its ultimate dissolution. I admit there were arcane symbols or notations next to some of the transactions. I have copied them into my notebook for further research. There was also a list of their shareholders present, allowing me to copy their names down for research. What most had in common, though, was that these men all were members of what is now the East India Club.”
“The East India Club,” I repeated.
“The East India Club, of course,” said he, as if I should have divined his comings and goings through mindreading or some such arcane practice.
“So, you just happened to have a footman’s outfit at your disposal and managed to make your way into the club?”
“I made a visit to a tailor friend who owed me a favour,” Holmes explained.
“Why did you think that infiltrating the EIC would help us find out where and how the castor beans came into the country?”
“Watson, just because the East India Company is defunct, does not mean that the members of its club have no information to offer. The same business is done, albeit under a different name. It was the obvious place to investigate the trade in Indian commodities.”
Although I had never had the pleasure of dining there, the East India Club was known by all London gentlemen, the last surviving vestige of the defunct trading concern. It had opened its doors mid-century and rapidly became a fixture of the city. While it had initially been a London hub solely for members of the East India Company, after the latter’s dissolution the club survived by relaxing its membership requirements. More than a few peers of the realm, including Prince Albert himself, routinely visited 16 St. James’s Square for meals and deal making, making it a popular meeting place for commerce and political interest where palms could be greased and wheels set in motion. The club had a library, a gymnasium, as well as a variety of meeting rooms, each with a specific ambiance from smoking to gaming. No doubt Holmes knew all this so I kept my own counsel and allowed him to continue his narrative uninterrupted.
“Wiggins having discovered nothing at the docks, and lacking time to research every coming and going of every ship at every port in England, I thought it best to insinuate myself where those who own those ships discuss their business affairs. As you know, servants are invariably invisible to people of a certain social strata, making the guise of a footman the perfect camouflage. As chance would have it, I managed to serve William Francis Frobisher, one of the last vested shareholders of the East India Company, and a retired army general. The general was taking luncheon with Edward Haldaine, a shipping magnate, and Patrick Chatterton-Smythe, a Member of Parliament.”
“Those names mean nothing to me,” I admitted.
“I did not know them myself before today,” Holmes said. “But now I am convinced I need to study them most vigorously.”
“Good god, you mean to say in a single casual visit you have managed to ascertain vital information on the case?”
He chuckled again, so good was his mood.
“The other staff treated me with suspicion, no doubt not recognising me, but as luck would have it one of their number, a man named Pennyworth, was absent so they were short a footman and assumed I had been hired by the management. I said nothing to the contrary, knowing well when fortune was smiling upon me, and my silence allowed them to fill in the blanks to their own satisfaction.
“After some inquiries as to the identities of those members present, Frobisher was pointed out to me by one of the other footmen and I decided to focus my efforts on him, endeavouring to be at his side for the rest of the day. He sat by himself at first, reading the newspapers and making conversation with other members of the club, though nothing of note was said. No doubt due to his time in the army, that long-standing family wealth and his position with the EIC, he knew most of the other members by sight and recalled most of their names, which is
a skill of note as it suggests a certain recollection and memory for faces. When he was alone, I made efforts to attend to his every whim, and was therefore in a position to exchange polite conversation, earning a measure of trust.
“The other two men I mentioned—the magnate Haldaine and Patrick Chatterton-Smythe the MP—arrived together late in the day. Through careful observation I was able to assess what manner of men they were.
“Chatterton-Smythe is haughty and overly confident of his skills, much to the perturbation of the other two,” Holmes noted. I suspected there was more to this, but knew he would come to it in good time. “He comes from Leeds and is serving a second term, largely on a platform of increased international trade and further consolidation of the Crown’s authority. The softening of his accent, plus some curious inflections suggests he has spent a considerable time abroad and is quite impressionable.
“Haldaine is a self-made man, rich beyond the comprehension of mere mortals, going from one fishing vessel to a fleet of international traders in two decades. Although I doubt he’s done a hard day’s work in years, his hands are still rough and he has kept his vigour, which suggested to me that he maintains his physique. His clothing was functional but not expensive, from which I inferred that he cares little what others think of him. His money has given him the freedom not to care about the opinions of others and he is proud of that to a fault.”
“That’s all very interesting, Holmes,” I said, “but what do any of the three men have to do with our investigation?”
“For a beginning, we have Frobisher with ties to India and Haldaine who ships goods around the world. A little research, I think, should turn up that among the goods he ferries here and there are castor beans.”
“Accessing a ready supply of the beans, then, would provide a means for the overdose,” said I.
“Precisely. As their meeting was concluding, an argument of sorts broke out. You know the kind: words exchanged in harsh whispered tones. There was an undercurrent to it, suggesting, I think, cracks in their unlikely alliance. I could not make out all the words, just the tenor of the discussion. One word did catch my attention, however.”
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