“I concur, Watson,” Holmes said. “And if as I believe, Lewis was poisoned with the same castor extract as the prime minister, we can further conclude our original hypothesis was indeed correct and we are on the right track. What alarms me is that we may have a problem on two continents linked by poison from the castor bean, but if they are truly connected as seems to be the case, it serves to shed light on our main investigation.”
“Wynter,” I said. However, the global implications of these deaths and what could possibly be gained by stalling the treaty struck me as something far beyond the remit of our adventures to date. Even prior to my meeting Holmes, he had never taken on a case of such a scale or sensitive a nature.
“Quite right. We do owe Mrs. Wynter an answer,” he said. “But it cannot be denied that this has grown beyond a poor old woman’s missing son. The Indian assassin is an agent for powerful men who I believe are trying to disrupt a peace that has been hard won, and seek to rule the world with their greed. They must be exposed and brought to justice. Along the way, I do hope we can find answers for Mrs. Wynter, but she can no longer be our primary concern. The game has changed. This is bigger than one missing sailor, Watson. And that only serves to make me all the more determined.”
Holmes sounded resolutely defiant, and I was glad to see the fire lit under him. However, his dismissive attitude towards the fate of Norbert Wynter concerned me. His mother was our client, not to mention the answer to our financial straits.
Holmes snatched up The Times once more. “I had almost forgot. Did you also notice the item of significance?” he asked, taking me by surprise.
“I read both accounts and saw nothing else regarding the death of Charles Lewis,” said I, shaking my head.
He turned to a back page and handed me the paper, a finger tapping a small notice. This announced that Nayar was concluding a year-long tour of England with a two-week appearance at the Theatre Royal in Newcastle before returning to his home on the subcontinent. It was headed LAST CHANCE TO SEE THE GREAT INDIAN FAKIR!
“Ships travel to and from India out of the port of Newcastle,” Holmes said. “Not only do they import castor beans, but I daresay they now export murderers. And see here—” he pointed to a list of performance dates “—he was in Exeter at the end of March, then Oxford, and was performing in London at the Adelphi from the 10th to the 20th of April.” Holmes looked exultant. “Disraeli’s health truly failed on the 17th, while at his home on Curzon Street. And Nayar was only two miles away!”
“How did an Indian fakir gain access to his residence, to Disraeli?” I asked, thinking that such a man would be somewhat conspicuous.
Holmes snorted. “He didn’t need to feed it to Disraeli on a spoon. I imagine a man of his talents would be well able to slip in at night, gain access to the kitchen, or perhaps Dr. Kidd’s own medical bag. That man was feeding his patient all sorts of pills and potions. Easy enough to exchange one quackery for another.”
“That sounds awfully tenuous to me, Holmes.”
“The truth will make itself known in good time,” he said.
I had nothing to disprove this, and my instincts told me that Holmes was correct in thinking this stage performer was the man who had attacked and nearly killed him, but his extrapolations were dizzying to my mind.
“Holmes, you are still healing from the beating he already gave you. Do be careful before you engage him again,” I warned, knowing he would not heed my words if it came to a physical brawl.
“I will do my utmost to avoid further injury, rest assured. This will more likely be a match of words and wit, not fisticuffs. It is my intention should things go that far, though, to give him the sound thrashing he so richly deserves.” I sighed at that.
There was some comfort that came with each new piece of information, each clue fitting in with the general picture Holmes had first created out of little more than wisps of fact, but I will admit it was cold. But now that the mysterious poisoner had a name, Nayar, we had new focus.
A sudden noise broke my reverie. It was the door at the end of the carriage, and I moved to the other end of our compartment and peered out into the corridor. A clergyman was approaching, wearing the vestments of his office, complete with the Canterbury cap and double-breasted cassock, not to mention a large, ornate wooden cross around his neck. He looked to be in his sixties and had grey hair clipped close to his broad head. His gait appeared unsteady, rolling with the lurch of the train, and he frequently clutched at the wall to steady himself.
Something about his movement seemed awry. Unnatural. No, not unnatural, I realised—practised. “Curious. Do you believe the good father to be inebriated so early in the day?” I asked Holmes.
Holmes watched him for a moment and shook his head. “I do not believe him to be a man of faith at all.”
“A thief perhaps, working the train?” I ventured.
“Perhaps,” said Holmes.
We watched in fascination as he ambled and stumbled and finally fell over one gentleman who was trying to pass, all apologies and blessings as he patted him down, confirming, I believed, my suspicion that I was watching a conman in action. When he came level with our compartment he nearly fell in. A bony hand reached out, clutching on to my shoulder for support. I revised my impression immediately as his warm breath was tainted with the tang of alcohol. He quickly straightened himself and waved his hand, forming a cross in the air just above my head, mayhap warning the evil spirits of whiskey, cognac and other temptations away.
Holmes coughed, attracting the priest’s attention.
“What is the trouble, my son,” the man said, in a practised voice pitched at the level of confidant and confessor. He paused, meeting Holmes’s eyes for the first time, and then the most remarkable thing happened. His entire character changed as his shoulders slumped and eyes wrinkled. He appeared more disappointed than anything and I was most confused.
“Damn it all, Holmes,” the man said, much to my astonishment. “You take the fun out of everything.”
“Watson, I would like to introduce you to Charles Bennett, imitation priest and full-time pickpocket. Please return the wallet to my companion, Dr. Watson, there’s a good chap.”
Bennett sat on the seat beside me and reached into his coat pocket, withdrawing my wallet. Somehow, even with my suspicions, I had completely missed the lift. He seemed a trifle reluctant to hand it over.
“He’s not a priest,” I said, stating the obvious as was often my wont.
“Indeed not. Bennett is as much an Anglican as I am a cricketer,” Holmes said before turning his attention to the man. “You are wearing the detachable collar the Anglican clergy abandoned some time ago, Charles. But you maintain its use to make it easier for you to slip in and out of costume. Most clergy today no longer wear the complete vestments away from the pulpit and I am also given to understand the cap is going out of style, but it is a familiar picture of piety so helps complete the illusion. The double-breasted cassock is useful as it allows you to secrete your stolen goods. Now, if you would be so kind?”
“Didn’t mean to bother a friend of Mr. Holmes,” Bennett said, then turned his attention back to my companion. “Whatever are you going north for? It’s godforsaken country up there, man. No one gets out of there alive.” This last he said with a grin.
“The doctor and I are headed to Newcastle on a case.”
“Is that a fact? Well, Holmes, if you don’t mind, I intend on continuing my occupation, but out of deference to your presence, I shall move on to the next car, if you are agreeable?” He rose to leave.
I expected Holmes to put an end to this nonsense immediately and summon the guard to have the man locked up on the spot, but he didn’t. Instead he called out, “A moment, Bennett. You no doubt trade the wallets to someone back in London, yes? You hear things, so tell us, what news travels in your circles?”
Bennett stroked a well-manicured finger under his chin, deep in thought. Then he shook his head. “I am sorry to say I really
have not heard anything that strikes me as out of the ordinary, Holmes.”
“You don’t happen to keep up with international affairs do you?”
The thief stared at my friend. I tried to judge his expression but could not read faces as well as Holmes. He covered his mouth, seemingly to hide a yawn. “Apologies, I do not. I have enough to occupy my attention on these fair shores.” He stretched. “I’ll be damned but I could use some fresh air.”
With a look from Holmes, I reached to the window of the compartment to open it, but to my surprise, I could not make it budge. I rose and left the compartment, and tried the nearest window in the corridor. It too was stuck fast.
“What the devil,” Bennett asked, once more staggering, but this time my practised eye showed he was not pretending.
I walked down the corridor and peered into the other compartments, Holmes at my heels. Several of their occupants were asleep, others yawning, and at least two others were attempting to pry open their windows in vain. Holmes turned to me, concern clouding his features. “I have read of this, Watson. Criminals will tape up the windows and the air vents, pumping gas into the carriage to knock their victims unconscious, then pillage their belongings.” He tried the handle of the door that led to the next carriage. It would not budge. “See here, the door has been bound shut. Do you have a knife?”
“No. This is monstrous,” I said, already beginning to feel sleepy, confirmation that Holmes was correct. He reached into my coat’s outer pocket and withdrew my handkerchief and rapidly tied it around his face. I understood, despite my hazy condition, that he was attempting to filter out the gas and remain alert to thwart the thieves, although I was somewhat put out that he had used my only handkerchief.
We hurried back down the corridor and I peered into our compartment. Bennett was already asleep and would be of little use. Suddenly a figure appeared from a compartment at the other end of the carriage. A man, his head entirely covered with a complex gas mask. His nightmarish countenance was constructed from glass eyepieces, a rubber-coated hood with a short hose connected to a canister strapped to his chest.
At first, I feared it was one of the navy men, sent by Hampton to escalate matters from merely following us to ending us. His silhouette was wrong, however. He was shorter and slighter, not at all built for the rigours of the sea. I could only ascertain so much given the peculiar picture he made.
As bizarre as his appearance was, the knife in his right hand was downright deadly.
I struggled to remain alert, determined to bear witness to what was to come next. The nightmare man began stalking down the corridor towards us. All I could think was that despite our best efforts, we must have been seen and followed, allowing this assassin to gain access to the train complete with this diabolical scheme to eliminate one or both of us. That, or we were the victims of the most appalling luck and had stumbled into a train robbery.
I knew that Holmes had not travelled with a weapon but he would not simply allow the man to take his life. He darted towards him, but abruptly ducked into the carriage next to ours, which housed an elderly lady, now asleep. He returned with a large carpet bag under one arm, a skein of wool and a pair of knitting needles protruding from the opening. I could not imagine how this would help our defence. I pounded on our compartment window, willing it to shatter, but I felt the strength ebb from my arms. Beyond the glass the landscape became a hazy blur, my eyes no longer able to focus, the unseen gas stinging and drawing tears. I watched, helpless, as Holmes stood in the corridor, the carpet bag in hand, as the masked man closed in.
The man approached to within striking distance. Facing him, Holmes held up the carpet bag. As his attacker’s arm swung in an arc, the sharp blade pointed at Holmes’s heart, my companion hefted the bag in an upward counter, deflecting the blow. Holmes was lucky; his opponent’s mask apparatus clearly impeded his vision and motion, and it made his gait stiff from its weight. Even so, he swung again, though this time Holmes opened up the bag and caught his attacker’s arm between the handles. He slammed it shut, both immobilising the arm and preventing it from bending at the elbow.
Clasping the bag with one hand, it was Holmes’s turn to strike and he thrust a knitting needle, not at the man, but at the hose that connected the mask to the canister. His aim was true and the wooden point punctured the hose, making a deep tear, but the thin needle also broke in two. Holmes tossed his end away, but the other remained in the hose, defeating its intended purpose as it effectively plugged the hole. The man’s struggles though did not permit more damage as a leg kicked out, forcing Holmes to disengage. With the rasping sound of his breathing as it filtered through the mask’s vent filling my ears, I watched as the nightmare man flexed the once-trapped arm. Holmes took advantage of that moment and braced himself against the walls of the compartment and the corridor. He hoisted himself up, swinging his long legs with great force, and kicked out at the attacker’s mask and canister, stopping the man in his tracks. Holmes pressed his advantage and rushed the man. They both fell to the floor, bodies entangled in a frantic fight.
As they grappled, I gave up on pounding at the glass and instead, used what little of my strength remained to grab the large wooden cross hanging from around Bennett’s neck. Tightening my grip so it would not slip away, I smashed it against the window and was rewarded with a loud cracking sound as the glass splintered. One more strike, although in honesty it was no more than a tap given my dwindling strength, shattered the window. Glass went flying as summer air rushed in.
I braced myself on the frame, inhaling deeply albeit slowly, and as the fresh air filled my lungs I could already feel myself growing more alert. No doubt the gas in the carriage was being pumped in from some hidden canister and would soon run out, defeated by the endless supply of air.
My mind clearer, I turned back to the battle in the corridor. Holmes was now atop the assassin, and as I watched, he ripped at the man’s mask. A brown face was revealed confirming my earlier thought he was not from the Admiralty. Was this Nayar, the mystic we were hunting? Had he found us first?
The man snarled with rage, the sound mixing with the susurrus of rushing air, and he rose to a kneeling position. Holmes was no stranger to fisticuffs and landed two quick right jabs and even from where I was I could hear the man’s nose snap. The second blow also sent his head back at such an angle that it collided with the wall, stunning him. Holmes took up the man’s knife, which had skittered from his grasp. He then paused long enough to remove his makeshift mask and breathed deeply.
“Are you alert, Watson?” he called to me.
“I am feeling better, yes,” I replied.
He handed the knife, hilt-first, to me. “Cut through the bindings around the door handles at both ends of the car. Keep the doors open. That will help revive our fellow passengers more quickly. Then go to the guard’s carriage and find a conductor. We will need help securing this villain until we reach York.”
He stood erect and tested his arms and neck, assessing himself for damage. I wanted to check him over, but our priority was to free the other passengers from this deadly carriage and arrange for our Indian attacker to be taken into custody.
I worked my way down the carriage, looking at the passengers slumped in their seats and was all too aware of just how terrible this day might have been if not for Holmes. I do not mind admitting that I shivered at the prospect, a chill chasing down my spine.
By the time I returned with a conductor, most of my fellow passengers were waking, disorientated and frightened. Bennett, to his credit, was playing the role of priest to perfection, calming down as many people as he could. His very appearance among the passengers went a long way to restoring calm. Order was soon reinstated once our fellow passengers realised they were sleepy but unharmed. That is, of course, the remarkable resilience of the English people in the face of adversity.
Holmes helped the conductor haul away the assassin to the guard’s van at the front of the train near the coal supply. By the t
ime he returned a short while later, our shattered compartment window was the only evidence that the journey had been anything other than smooth. He took his seat beside me.
“Our assailant is not Nayar, of that I am sure,” he began. “He did not say so much as his name, he bore no more than a passing resemblance to the fakir. A cousin or brother perhaps.” I knew better than to question Holmes about it now, but determined to ask him later. “The respirator he wore was most interesting. That was Samuel Barton’s design, introduced in 1874, and while I have read about its operation, using lime, glycerine-soaked cotton wool and charcoal to filter the noxious air, I have not had the opportunity for an up-close examination before this moment.”
“If the contraption was of English design, how would an Indian come in possession of it?”
“A very good question,” said Holmes. “One to add to our lengthening list, I’m afraid. Now, I can only presume someone learned of our whereabouts and must have sent a signal, which was no easy undertaking. We should be flattered, Watson, we have our enemies worried. Consider the logistics of this attack, assuming we were the intended victims. The car would need to be mostly sealed before passengers boarded at King’s Cross—whilst we were at breakfast in the station café. They had almost two hours between our securing the tickets to Newcastle, so were able to discover our destination with old-fashioned bribery or simple subterfuge at the ticket office. What we can be sure of is this man had accomplices. Nayar and his kin may not be their only operatives. It would explain how they evaded my street Arabs. They were trying to free us of one tail, not multiple shadows. I now fear that there might well be a cadre of Indian agents working for our friends at the East India Club. Obviously we were mistaken and the boys didn’t succeed, but even so they had less than two hours to accomplish this while we waited for our departure. That shows not just an ability to act quickly, but a level of influence.”
Murder at Sorrow's Crown Page 14