“A word?”
“Yes, Watson. A single word: ‘mystic’.”
“And mystics come from India,” I concluded, following his tenuous line of reasoning.
“Exactly!” he said in a triumphant tone and held his teacup under his nose, savouring the aroma as if it were his reward. “And there is more.”
I waited expectantly, knowing he was enjoying making me tease the facts out of him.
“Fortunately I was summoned to clear their plates—which allowed me to clear away scraps of papers including handwriting samples from two of the three men—just as Haldaine said something even more interesting. Something about being glad they would be rid of ‘them’ when his tour ended in Newcastle.”
“Rid of whom?” I asked.
“The mystic and his accomplice, I believe,” said Holmes. “As the word ‘tour’ suggests he is some sort of performer and he is currently or soon to be treading the boards in Newcastle. If my surmise is correct he is our link between the castor beans, Disraeli’s death, and the attempt on my life.”
“Holmes, there are many Indians living and working in England, many of whom no doubt tour with performing troupes. Are you not making a series of connections that will only fall apart when a single one of your suppositions proves to be wrong?”
“Perhaps, but there is one other clue that convinces me that those three men were discussing the same Indian who nearly took my life, and that he is the link that ties our various threads together to form the solution we seek, and that is the final stage of his tour.”
“How so?”
“Do you not see the significance of Newcastle?”
I sat stumped, unable to summon a useful detail about the city. Given its full title, Newcastle upon Tyne was a long established settlement to the north of the country first settled by the Romans. I seemed to recall that the city had a remarkable library and a history of industrial innovation, notably the work of George and Robert Stephenson, the fathers of the railway.
My silence was taken as permission to conclude his report and Holmes said, “Watson, according to what I overheard at the club, Newcastle is where the formal treaty to end the Boer conflict is currently being drafted.”
Ten
A Trip to Newcastle upon Tyne
I admit that I must have gaped at Holmes as he made that revelation.
While I knew a treaty was in the process of being written, I had read as much in the papers, the location had not been publicly announced. Now that I knew it was to be in Newcastle, I too began to see how everything was starting to fit together. Still, there were some gaps, some connections that still confused me, and I said so to Holmes, trusting that he was not magicking these lines of investigation from thin air.
“I contend that these three men have a vested interest in the outcome of the treaty; whether that is it being signed or not, I cannot yet divine,” Holmes began. “Presumably they have business dealings in South Africa which will suffer as a result. They have treated with some Indian assassin—likely a contact made by Frobisher, given his time in India—the man they call the ‘mystic’, to do their dirty work, including carrying out the attack on my person.”
“But why would they send this man after you?”
“That, my dear friend, is where I believe the Wynter connection comes into play. I believe that it was our visit to the Admiralty, inquiring into South African affairs, that led to these men ordering the ‘mystic’ to attack me. We were public in our questioning, and no doubt a report was made, probably to Chatterton-Smythe. As an MP he is the most likely of the three to have contacts at the Admiralty. I was to be dissuaded from investigating Wynter’s disappearance, or perhaps they intended my death. Wiggins’s intervention means we do not know either way.”
“Now wait just a minute, Holmes,” interjected I. “We were both certain that Hampton had sent men after us. Are you now suggesting the Admiralty hired an Indian assassin as well? That stretches belief too far.”
“Indeed it does,” he said rather calmly. “Hampton was under orders from someone—perhaps Chatterton-Smythe—to keep us away from Wynter’s trail. That is as close as we have to a fact in this sordid affair. Someone else also wants us away from Wynter’s case and it is my belief that man is Edward Haldaine, who could easily have transported an Indian here and unleashed him.”
“And you are suggesting Haldaine brought in a mystic to do away with you?”
“The title ‘mystic’ would suggest he is accomplished at several things, not merely parlour tricks,” he observed. “For instance a knowledge of chemistry, including how to extract the toxins from castor beans. Could this man possibly have been their agent in Disraeli’s death? Retribution for his role in the dissolution of the East India Company?”
“But that was years ago, surely?”
Holmes cocked an eyebrow. “If these three are involved in some criminal activity in South Africa, it has to be something large enough to force them to see off Disraeli before he did something that could have a negative impact on their affairs.”
“Not retribution?”
“I think not. They have had several years to seek revenge for his push to shut down the company’s initiatives in India and the subcontinent, so their motivations must be something entirely different. But we do not know what, or for that matter the roles Wynter and the Boer conflict play in their schemes.”
This was all getting to be too much. The search for Wynter’s whereabouts had taken us to locations that were at the height of the government. We had been researching conspiracies, murder, and something to do with India and now South Africa. Two of the men Holmes just observed, may or may not have been involved in having us followed. The extraordinary circumstances to date had been staggering in their implications. I could not believe these to be true.
“But, Holmes, do we have any substantive evidence to take to any authority who can either produce Wynter or arrest the mystic?”
“Not as yet, Watson. We do not yet have all the facts and need to go about gathering them. Drink up so we may be on our way. The trail has grown more obvious, but if we delay we risk it going cold. I feel the need to act.”
Holmes’s logic was less clear to me, but his argument was compelling if far-fetched. I was ready to follow where he led, wherever that might be. The enormity of the matter was not lost on me, or I confess, the danger. However, this affair, whatever its exact nature, might threaten the Empire itself.
“What is our next move?” I asked.
“We need to learn where the treaty is being drafted in Newcastle. We also need to determine possible venues in that city where our Indian mystic may be performing, and divine how much longer he will be in the country. Once he leaves our shores, apprehending him becomes problematic to say the least. That is an eventuality we can ill afford.”
“I suppose we are off to the library, then,” I ventured. This was becoming a bit of a habit and I hoped my friend there would not feel put upon.
He nodded in agreement, then looked down at his footman’s attire. “But first, I must change.”
* * *
We managed to get to the London Library just before it closed for the day and I persuaded Lomax to allow us to stay after hours. Much as I might have found the lengthy history of Newcastle interesting reading in other circumstances, I needed to focus on its most immediate condition. Much of what I read confirmed what I already knew: references to its past as a mining town and a major site of industrial manufacture.
In reading on more recent history I came across an item that made me shudder as pieces continued to fall into place, creating a picture I liked not in the least. “Holmes,” I said in a voice appropriate for a library despite us being the sole patrons, “the ports do take in trade from India and Newcastle is in fact the entry port for shipments of castor beans. In fact, their volume seems to grow by the year.”
He paused his own reading to absorb the information, his keen mind matching it with what we had learned so far. A cu
rt nod of his head meant he accepted the fact, added it to his limited repository of information and resumed his research.
The volumes he was perusing were not related to the recent periodicals but were older works, dark leather-bound and reeking of age. “What are you studying?” I asked.
“Those symbols I copied down. I am trying to ascertain what they mean, where they came from. The notations were always next to property not financial transactions. But I cannot fathom what they mean.”
“Might we need to consult a real estate expert?”
“I would hope not because I believe we are pressed for time and finding someone versed in arcane symbology will be difficult to come by. However, I see where knowing of such a fellow might actually come in handy in the future.”
I merely grunted in assent and refocused my attention on the newspapers. Holmes made his own sound of frustration and with a loud thump, turned aside from the ancient tomes to assist me in our contemporary research.
Holmes sat beside me, working his way through back issues of various newspapers, searching for articles related to the peace treaty with the Boers. At one point, he thrust a newspaper just below my nose and stabbed a finger at an article. “Watson, the treaty is scheduled to be signed in a week, on 3rd August!” A date not too far away, I noted. Closer, indeed, than I would have liked.
“You think something will happen to stop the signing?”
“A mystic assassin who just happens to currently be in Newcastle as the British preparations for treaty are being finalised? I should say that is more than mere coincidence, wouldn’t you?”
“You say that, but we still have no evidence of any connection between the men at the club and the treaty,” I protested. “You are looking for coincidences that conform to your bias, rather than letting the facts form the basis for your deductions. This is most unlike you, my friend. You are usually far more rigorous, but I fear you are allowing the grand conspiracy to run away with you. We need incontrovertible proof.” Holmes took this with good grace.
“Quite right. We need more evidence, and we cannot find it in London. We must make haste to Newcastle first thing in the morning.”
“Holmes,” I said, not entirely sure how to broach the subject, “not to be indelicate, old man, but do you have the funds for the fare?”
Holmes took out his wallet and did a fast count. “I should have just enough, I believe. My time at the Horse and Hounds was certainly providential. But you are correct, my parsimonious friend, we should be careful with our spending.”
“Even if we solve this case, we will be fortunate if Mrs. Wynter pays her bill promptly. Our rent is due on 1st August,” I added. Holmes was silent, leaving me to presume we were tapping the last of our finances. He rose from his chair and headed for the door.
“Where are you going now?”
Holmes glanced back over his shoulder. “To find the Baker Street Irregulars.”
I left the London Library shortly after, returning to Baker Street. As was my wont, I was up a good part of the night, reading and contemplating the case. Holmes himself returned well after dark, but we were both up as the sun rose. Upon exiting 221B, I was not at all surprised to see Wiggins’s grubby face and several of his gang loitering on the street corner.
“Mornin’, guv’nor,” said he to Holmes, tipping his battered cap. The other boys, in similar states of grime, silently saluted. “Is it time?”
Holmes nodded. “I should think so.” He turned to me. “Let us find a cab.”
He stuck out his arm and a passing hansom began to slow for us. The boys scattered as if on some silent cue.
“What are they up to?” I inquired.
“General mayhem,” Holmes said with a slight smile. “I also had one of the Arabs play postman, delivering a letter of inquiry regarding those symbols. In reviewing the handwriting samples I obtained at the East India Club, one included a random sketch with some numbers. It looked remarkably like one of those symbols so its identity has risen in importance.
“I admit I cannot fathom of the numbers. 33, 27, 50, 20, 59, 10. It may be a cypher, it may be some bank account. This leaves me at a loss.”
My eyebrows raised in surprise at such an extraordinary finding but such is the way with Holmes and his investigations, of that I have learned more than once. I glanced out the cab once more and saw the final three urchins bolt. As they did so, I spotted our old friend, the man who had followed me from the Horse and Hounds. His idea of a change in disguise was a fresh coat; otherwise he looked just as he had when I’d led him a merry dance. As Holmes and I climbed into the cab, three of the boys gathered around him and proceeded to make a racket. I presumed they were making certain there was no possibility of him overhearing our instructions to the driver. I looked out of the window and smiled with delight. The hapless man could only watch as our cab rolled out of sight.
* * *
We arrived at King’s Cross Station at eight, but as it turned out, the next train to Newcastle would not leave until past ten so we had time to spare. We secured our tickets and then passed much of the two hours before departure with the morning newspapers and a breakfast bought in the small station café. Holmes took it upon himself to study the comings and goings of our fellow passengers. When he finally settled into a seat opposite me, I presumed the boys had done their job well and that there was no sign of our pursuer, but I was still concerned as to whether the man had spotted our bags. They offered him a clue that we were about to travel. Of course, there were several stations the cab could have taken us to, on all sides of the city. Would he possibly know that we had discovered the Newcastle link? It seemed unlikely. Holmes had not been unmasked while eavesdropping on Frobisher, Haldaine and Chatterton-Smythe.
That Hampton would continue to have men following us even as our investigations took us further and further from the Admiralty was cause for concern.
“Holmes,” I said, interrupting whatever private musing he was undertaking. “What on earth could Wynter have gotten himself mixed up in if Hampton still has people following us?”
“Do not forget that apart from the naval men enjoying some extracurricular activity, we also have the Indian assassin to contend with. Our movements are of interest to a good many people it would seem. Something is afoot, that is for sure, but beyond that, Watson, I would not hazard to conjecture without more information. After all, that is the purpose of this trip.”
We took the East Coast Main Line, a conglomeration of smaller lines that had merged through the years, and resulted in the sleek, speedy Flying Scotsman. Its ultimate destination, some nine hours later, was to be Edinburgh, but first we would have to endure stops in Peterborough, Grantham, and Doncaster before a half-hour stop for lunch in York.
Holmes and I settled into our compartment, with me taking a window seat while he sat close to the door in order to study the other passengers as they moved up and down the corridor outside. On the platform, the guard blew his whistle and the engine responded with a lurch as the brake was released, then we were underway. Steam streamed past my window as we gathered our head and powered away from the platform. As we began the journey, Holmes had withdrawn a notebook and was working out various combinations, trying to find a meaning in the jumble of numbers he had obtained from the gentlemen at the East India Club. After a quarter hour, he appeared to have given up.
We were perhaps an hour outside of London when Holmes—who had satisfied himself that none of our fellow passengers posed a threat and had been reading my copy of The Times—stiffened and asked for the other newspapers. Something had obviously caught his eye.
I had also picked up the latest editions of the Standard and Daily News and offered them to Holmes. He paged through them, scanning the dense columns of text carefully and without saying a word. His focus alarmed me, but I held my tongue, waiting for his conclusion.
“Watson, did you see this thimble of a report from South Africa?” He thrust a finger at a story on page fourteen of The Times
, one I had missed when I thumbed through the papers at King’s Cross. It was a report of the death of Charles Lewis, a solicitor, who had passed away suddenly after a short, mysterious illness. While details of the single column inch report were scant, the piece did contain a single gem that sparked my interest: he would now be unable to complete the work he had begun on “a treaty of great significance”. I understood Holmes’s alarm immediately. The news of Lewis’s death only made it as far as the British papers because of his relative status in the Boer community, I was sure.
“It is possible that this man Lewis did not die from natural causes,” Holmes said, voicing my own thoughts. “The coincidence of this undiagnosed illness so close to the signing of the treaty has me convinced there was foul play involved.”
“Holmes, surely there can be no connection between Lewis and our case,” I said.
“No,” he asked in a tone that I had come to recognise as being one of disapproval. “Wynter was in South Africa and has disappeared. We already have one suspicious case of death with the former PM, and now this lawyer working on the very treaty that might be the catalyst to everything we’re investigating. This is far more than coincidence.”
I reread the story then read a similar account in the Standard, although the Daily News carried no mention of the death. Based on the few details presented in the reports, both of a similar paucity, a proper diagnosis was impossible; Lewis had suffered from gastrointestinal symptoms and slipped into a coma in the course of only three days. But Holmes had been teaching me to think more deductively over the previous few months.
“The man’s rapid decline strikes me as markedly similar to that of Disraeli,” I said, slowly conceding the point. I couldn’t help but think that we were missing some detail, some finer point that would change our perceptions of everything, but it was thus far elusive.
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