Murder at Sorrow's Crown

by Steven Savile

  “Yes. We went to the Police Station yesterday evening and gave a full report.”

  “Last night?”

  “Young man, you are in the exceedingly poor habit of repeating things I say. That is a habit you must be broken of. As someone who has been on the force for two years, you should know how to comport yourself.”

  “How the devil do you know how long…?”

  “Is that really what’s important?” Holmes said, his voice growing irritable. “Your police issue boots have two years’ wear on them. The average London constable will require a new pair every three years. You are not old enough to have been on the force for five years, therefore you are wearing your first pair. I discounted the possibility that you are a new recruit with second-hand shoes because your hair is at least three weeks past regulation length. You have been with the force long enough to grow lax in your habits. Now, are we required to provide additional information about the Indian?”

  “Indian?” The constable looked utterly perplexed now.

  “Yes, the dead Indian. Your colleague’s report will show that he is believed to have been intending to rob us, but during the fight he fell on his own weapon and died.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes, but I believe there has been a mistake,” the young man said. “He is… I mean… the murder victim is not an Indian.”

  “Why am I being summoned then? Who wants me and where?”

  “Inspector Gregson asked me to come and bring you in, sir. He told me to tell you that he would be ever so grateful if you could see your way clear to coming and lending him your eyes.”

  “We are at cross purposes and talking about an entirely different dead man,” I said. “Holmes, can we really afford the time to consult with Scotland Yard on another matter? We have a pressing concern of our own to tend to.”

  “Indeed we do, Watson, but it might well be time to consult with Scotland Yard, which has the international reach we lack and Gregson may be of some use to us. I am happy to exchange my services for his,” Holmes replied.

  And that is how we found ourselves accompanying the young constable, who was named Shaw, in a police carriage to the scene of a very different crime.

  We rolled past Piccadilly Circus and Whitehall and continued toward the less savoury part of London, down by the water on the east side where illegal activity was rife and life appeared to be incredibly cheap.

  Shaw escorted us into a dark red brick building that lacked name or number. I noted that its windows were boarded up, and there were signs of fire damage. Everything about the place spoke of sin and degradation, illegal activity under the guise of anonymity. Constable Shaw took us up a flight of stairs and down to the end of a narrow hallway, where a single candle burned, throwing a pallid cast onto a door.

  The young policeman held open the door and we entered a room that was blinding in its brilliant colours. There were red shades over several lanterns, casting the room in a bright scarlet hue. The walls were a wild pattern of many florid colours. It was most definitely a wallpaper that one would never hang in a proper home. This, though, was far from a proper home. It looked to be exactly what it was: a house of ill repute that catered to a quiet clientele. As an army doctor, I had treated more than a few soldiers suffering from the diseases of vice. I had always felt rather sorry for the young women who were the vectors of such complaints, but I am not sure they would have appreciated my sympathy.

  While I had never partaken of such services, I knew enough to recognise a brothel when I saw one and from the quality of the furniture, it was apparent that we were in an expensive establishment, despite the sordid building which housed it. As I scanned our surroundings, my eyes fell on two still figures under white sheets, one in the centre of the room, one lying on a divan, and realised that this was not just one death but two. Death had come to this part of the city with a vengeance last night.

  Standing over the bodies was Tobias Gregson, an inspector with the Yard whom I had not seen since the Jefferson Hope case. Holmes considered Gregson and his colleague Lestrade the best of a bad lot, but I had a certain fondness for the tall, tow-headed man.

  “Holmes, I am glad to have you here,” the inspector said by way of greeting. He turned to me and smiled. “Dr. Watson, good to see you again. I have been enjoying your accounts of Mr. Holmes’s exploits.”

  “You are too kind,” I said, shaking the man’s outstretched hand.

  “How may we be of service, Inspector?” Holmes said abruptly. “We are working on a case of our own and the need for us to bring it to a satisfactory resolution is pressing.”

  “Very well, then,” Gregson said. “We have taken down all the details, but before we move the bodies I would very much appreciate you taking a look around. You have an eye for this sort of thing others do not.” He bent low and drew back one side of the white sheet that covered the body in the centre of the room, revealing the corpse of a young woman, not more than twenty. Her face was covered in smeared makeup, and her brown eyes were open; it seemed to me that there was an expression of abject terror in them. Her neck was ringed with dark bruises, several oval spots revealing where strong fingers had squeezed the life out of her.

  Gregson then moved to the body that lay on the divan and repeated the action, pulling back the sheet to reveal a corpulent man of middle age, the lower half of his face almost obscured by a thick, greying moustache. I did not recognise him but Holmes let out his breath in a sharp hiss.

  “Inspector, do you know who this man is?”

  “I should hope so, Holmes. His name is Patrick Chatterton-Smythe, a Member of Parliament. His identity is the reason I am here rather than the City of London police. Once his body was identified, Scotland Yard was alerted and I was dispatched to investigate. Did you know Chatterton-Smythe?”

  “We never met, at least not to be introduced, but I knew who he was. As it happens, Inspector, Chatterton-Smythe is directly connected to the very case I mentioned. His death adds an entirely new dimension to our investigation.”

  “I look forward to the details, but first, let us look at Mr. Chatterton-Smythe.”

  Holmes knelt to inspect the corpse without touching it. Rigor mortis had clearly set in, locking the dead man’s muscles tight. This allowed me to estimate the time of death as some time during the night, the very night Nayar tried to kill Holmes and me. It was too striking a coincidence to ignore.

  Holmes pulled down the man’s collar, but there was no bruising like that on the girl. He then examined the man’s hands, his wrists, and finally forced open the mouth, peering inside with his magnifying glass. Finally he rose, nodding at some conclusion that was beyond me.

  “You should know, Holmes, one of those muckrakers from Fleet Street is already sniffing around and the papers will be full of this before too long,” Gregson said. “A sitting Member of Parliament dead is bad enough, but to die in a place like this… there will be a scandal, mark my words. Not to mention the man had a wife and children.”

  Holmes nodded again. “And what shall you tell his family?”

  “Why, it seems obvious to me what has happened here, although I asked you to come in case there was some more innocent solution I’ve missed.” Gregson strode over to the corpse of the woman and pointed at her bruised neck. “See here, Chatterton-Smythe strangled this girl, no doubt a quarrel over payment. Then he made his way over to the divan and had some sort of apoplexy or suffered a failure of the heart, the result of shock or exertion. Look at the size of the man. And there’s not a mark on him. I’m sure the doctor will agree.”

  I crossed over to the corpse of Chatterton-Smythe and made my own examination. The fleshy face was engorged with blood, the eyes popping from the head; such symptoms could be a sign of heart failure. I could see no obvious marks of violence, and said as much to Holmes. However, my companion shook his head.

  “I’m afraid, Inspector, that these events are more nefarious than you suspected. The girl was indeed strangled, but not by Chatterton-Smythe.
Observe the marks on her neck, clearly made by a man’s hands, not by a ligature. Now look at our MP’s hands.”

  I did so, and immediately saw what Holmes was talking about. “He’s wearing a signet ring!”

  “Exactly, Watson. Now would a man in the throes of a violent argument think to take off his signet ring before strangling his victim, and then calmly put it back on his finger? See, the ring has a small opal set into its face. Had it been worn by the girl’s attacker, her skin would have been torn, and yet it has not.”

  Gregson nodded at this, but did not look completely convinced. “Then who killed her, and how did Chatterton-Smythe die? Are you saying he was also murdered? But how? Some kind of untraceable poison?”

  I had had enough of untraceable poisons for one case, and so was relieved when Holmes laughed and shook his head.

  “No, Inspector. Not this time. Both our victims died of the same cause, but in different ways. Come—” He beckoned to us both, and we crowded around the body of the dead MP. “Here, Watson, bring that lantern and raise it to the face.” I did so, and Holmes pulled down the jaw, stiff from rigor. “See, Inspector. Note the bruising on the nose, practically obscured by the reddening of the skin. And what do you observe in the man’s mouth?”

  Gregson peered closer, his face intent. “See? I see nothing, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Look at the man’s molars.”

  It was a moment before Gregson spoke. “Is that thread?” He drew back and I took his place. Sure enough, with the aid of Holmes’s magnifying glass, I could see several strands of black fibre caught between Chatterton-Smythe’s back teeth.

  “Yes indeed, Inspector,” said Holmes. He seemed more animated than I had seen him for some considerable time.

  “And what is the significance?”

  “Really, Inspector, is it not obvious?”

  “Come now, Holmes,” I said. We did not have the time for my companion to play games.

  “Well, let us look at the evidence. We have an unknown woman, clearly strangled by a powerful man, given the size of the finger marks on her neck. But not by the man who lies dead in the same room, as he wears a ring that would have cut into her skin. Both their faces are engorged with blood, a sign both of strangulation and apoplexy. I say that both victims died as the result of their breath being stopped by an unknown hand. Chatterton-Smythe has bruising around his nose and black fibres caught in the back of his mouth. From that we can deduce that his nostrils were held shut and a wad of black material was pushed into his mouth, resulting in suffocation.” Holmes swept his arm to encompass our surroundings. “Yet there is no such material in this room, so clearly the murderer took it with him, or rather them, as surely this must have been the work of more than one villain, to subdue the woman and to also hold the man down while another stopped his breath.”

  Gregson’s expression was one of revulsion. “So what was the motive? A robbery gone awry?”

  Holmes shook his head. “No, Inspector. This was nothing short of cold-blooded murder designed to besmirch Chatterton-Smythe’s reputation.”

  “And the murderers?” Gregson insisted.

  “That, Inspector, is something I endeavour to discover, and discover quickly. If my suspicions are accurate, the situation has grown even more dangerous than I first suspected.”

  “You said before Chatterton-Smythe was involved in your most current case. Can you give me the details?”

  “I can and will be happy to share them. In exchange, I may need Scotland Yard to help me to intercede on England’s behalf to stop more murders being committed before this investigation has run its course. But first, I suggest you dispatch a constable to locate the body of an Indian man called Nayar, and arrange for it to be sent to whichever morgue these two bodies are destined for. Watson and I reported the death to officers from the local Police Station, and I believe it has a bearing on these murders. That victim is connected with the larger matter and having all three bodies in one place may prove valuable.”

  “A third body?”

  “Yes, Gregson. The mortal remains of an assassin that very nearly made victims of Watson and me. It was that very body I thought to be the reason for young Shaw seeking me out this morning.”

  Gregson looked somewhat overwhelmed, but he nodded in agreement. “I need to make my report to the government; seeing as the victim was an MP, the Yard is treading lightly. Why don’t you accompany me and give me your story on the ride?”

  “That would be agreeable,” Holmes said. “Come, Watson.”

  I stepped over the corpse that still lay on the floor, feeling great pity for the young woman, who was most certainly a victim—if not entirely an innocent one—in a much bigger affair. I hoped that her name would be discovered and that she would not go into an unmarked pauper’s grave. I would treat her as fairly as possible when writing up the account of the case.

  The police carriage was not as comfortable as I had imagined it might be, luxury obviously spared, and with three of us within—Shaw rode atop with the driver—it made for close quarters. Holmes outlined what we had uncovered in a clipped manner, keeping to the facts and refraining from sharing his thoughts and observations. The Houses of Parliament loomed over us as we rounded a corner and Gregson did not look at all pleased to be there. I could not blame him. This was sad business, but now also a most dangerous one, and there were no procedures for such a case for him to follow. He was a dogged sort, and the more time I spent in his company the more I grew to like his earnest demeanour.

  “What exactly will you tell the leadership?” I asked.

  “I will tell them the facts and share your thoughts about what truly happened,” Gregson said.

  “Do not speak of the conspiracy or the diamonds,” Holmes instructed.

  “Why not? You cannot expect me to lie to the House?”

  “Of course not, only to omit certain facts. If Chatterton-Smythe’s compatriots learn we know as much as we do, I suspect they will go to ground and complicate the case. I need to return to the East India Club, where I last saw Chatterton-Smythe, and learn what I can from his surviving conspirators, Frobisher and Haldaine.”

  Gregson nodded in agreement, but the expression on his face told me he did not like it. Anyone with even the slightest interest in current affairs knew that the government was already dealing with pressing issues concerning Afghanistan, the absorption of the Boer region, and the constant matter of Ireland. A political scandal like this could bring it down. Holmes tried to reassure him. “Gregson, you have my word you will be informed of the facts and will be free to act accordingly, taking the credit for bringing down a criminal conspiracy, preserving the signing of a significant treaty and protecting the realm. That’s all good for you and for Scotland Yard. I daresay it will be the making of an already fine career.”

  With that, we climbed down from the carriage and walked north, back towards Baker Street.

  En route, Holmes outlined his intention of resuming his disguise as a footman at the East India Club. “Chatterton-Smythe’s murder is likely a sign of a falling out between him and Frobisher and Haldaine. While I am thus engaged, I would have you track down Wiggins and the rest of the Irregulars. I need them to make themselves available for additional duties urgently.”

  We parted ways, Holmes on to Baker Street to prepare his disguise, I in the general direction Holmes thought I was likely to find the boys. It was only a matter of minutes before I spotted a pack of urchins. Not knowing their names, I wondered how to address them, but was relieved of the dilemma when Wiggins emerged from the group, walking toward me with a cockish swagger to his step, the others following behind him as baby ducks do their mother.

  “Mornin’, Doctor,” said he brightly. “Mr. Holmes got some work for us, ’as he?”

  “Looking for a good cracksman?” one boy chirped.

  “Need us at a flash house?” another asked.

  “Want us to recommend a ladybird?” a third added, getting a round of laughter from the oth
ers at my expense.

  “Nothing of the sort, young man,” I corrected. And then I paused, not entirely sure what Holmes had planned for the boys. I said as much. “I will be absolutely honest with you and say that I have no true notion of what Sherlock desires from you, only that he asked me to bring you to him.”

  “That’s handy,” Wiggins said. “I’d rather be doing something for ’im than be in the clink any day of the week. Follow me, gentlemen,” he grinned and set off, leading the way. The rank he afforded the ruffians earned him another round of laughter as I and my strange entourage made our way to 221B. They waited on the street while I went upstairs to find Holmes.

  Upon entering our rooms, my companion was already in his footman’s attire. “Wiggins is here?”

  “Indeed, along with his followers,” I confirmed.

  “Most excellent,” Holmes said.

  “Holmes, are you placing these boys in danger?”

  “I would think not, Watson,” said he. With that, he picked up his walking stick, the only weapon he allowed himself, and returned to the street.

  “Look at the mobsman,” one boy called as Holmes emerged from the front door.

  “Ready to give up detecting to work for the swells?”

  “Need us to knock over a toff?”

  “Nothing of the sort,” Holmes chided the youngest of the bunch, a boy of no more than ten, with very curly locks and bright freckles. “I don’t know what you might think Wiggins does for me, but whatever tales he tells you, burglary is far from it.”

  “Would if you paid me,” Wiggins offered with a grin.

  “Thank you, no. Today, you and the boys will accompany me to the East India Club.”

  “Oooh, fancy.”

  Holmes ignored the interruption. “When I signal you, there will be two men who require following. Split into two groups, one for each man. Within your group, take turns to follow closest, to make certain you are not detected. This particular engagement will necessitate you moving throughout parts of town where young men like yourself would most likely be chased off by local policemen, so be watchful and do nothing to draw unwanted attention. It is imperative you keep these gentlemen in your sights at all times. I will require regular reports, so set up a relay system to ensure the information remains current.”