by David Fable
A half hour later, Mrs. Hudson brought us a fine lamb stew and some bread. She gazed at the timeline quietly. “Moriarty is behind this.” Mrs. Hudson said with certainty. “That guard must have known that, so he murdered him.” This was the first time she had ever weighed in on a case.
“You may well be correct, Mother. But there are still details to be worked out.” There was a certain amount of condescension in his voice that did not escape her notice. She studied him and seemed about to say something but refrained and withdrew from the room without further comment.
In a short time, we had finished Mrs. Hudson’s stew and opened a second bottle of Bordeaux.
“What were you saying about Wiggins earlier?” I asked, now mellowed by my third glass of wine.
“About finding it odd that he gave you an address when you no longer needed it?” Christopher had resumed scanning his timeline with his glass in hand.
“What were you suggesting?” I rose stiffly from the dining table and settled back into my familiar armchair.
“It seems to me that Wiggins has a line on everything, but not only does he not produce the address in a timely fashion, but he also doesn’t seem to be aware that you had already tried to visit the location. I wonder where he suddenly got the address. Scotland Yard had no record. You were only able to obtain it through Holmes’s obscure business records. Wiggins would not have that same information. I know that he could not have obtained it from the hospital, because they had no idea of her whereabouts. This brings up the likelihood that Wiggins knew all along where Lilah was, but only revealed it to you after you had discovered it for yourself.”
“You’re saying he gave me the address after I already knew it in order to cover up that he had been concealing it.”
“That’s a reasonable conclusion. He wants to continue to make you believe he’s being helpful even if he’s not.”
“But she showed up at the funeral for God’s sake. How was he going to conceal that?”
“All the more reason why he decided he might as well give up her location. And by the way, if she hadn’t lifted her veil, we might not have ever known she was there.”
“But why would Wiggins not want me to get in touch with Lilah?”
“I don’t know.” He gave a little flourish with his hand, the kind of gesture one makes after reaching the bottom of a second bottle of Bordeaux. “Perhaps I’m giving him too much credit.”
“Tomorrow I’m going to return to that building and settle the matter,” I declared while eyeing a dusty bottle of Madeira sitting alone in the cupboard.
“Why not tonight?” asked Christopher.
“Because I believe based on the conversation we just had, we are both drunk, and, before I open that bottle of Madeira, I am going to bed.”
“I am perfectly lucid,” said Christopher with a slight show of indignation.
“We will go in the morning. I am retiring to my old bedroom to get a night’s sleep.”
“Very well. I anticipated as much and had Mother prepare your room for you.”
“You are a very foresightful, young man.” I struggled to my feet. “Tomorrow we shall return to the building in Fulham. That was some excellent Bordeaux. Goodnight,” I said and staggered out of the room.
The furniture in my bedroom remained the same as it had over a decade ago. I had taken with me my gramophone and Afghan War relics when I moved out, but nothing else had been removed or rearranged. I cannot fully express the comfort I felt climbing into the bed I had slept in for so many years. Undoubtedly, the wine contributed to this serene feeling, but so did every other sensation in my body, reminding me of the confidence and empowerment of those days with Holmes. I heard Christopher scribbling and taping pieces of paper onto his timeline as I fell into a peaceful sleep.
19
T he next morning I awoke to a mild hangover and shuffled into the living room to find Christopher up and already dressed for the day. He was wearing those dungarees and an Oxford rugby shirt, blue with a white collar. His timeline was twice as crowded as the night before and he was studying it over the rim of his coffee cup. I myself never fancied coffee. I eschew the coffeehouses, where university students and intellectuals gather and debate matters of art and politics. I favor a nice, cozy pub where a man can get a pint and not hear a word about Russian novelists, German painters or those useless sods in Parliament.
I suggested to Christopher that we go to the Brown’s Hotel for kippers and eggs as that would put us only a block from my flat, and I needed a change of clothes. I found breakfast at Brown’s to be an excellent cure for hangovers, and the maître d’, Edvard, always managed to find a table for me when I arrived unannounced.
We made the drive over, and Edvard seated us at a banquette by the window. Christopher ordered a cheese omelet and our breakfast arrived within minutes. I cut into my soft-boiled egg and let the yolk ooze over the two meticulously filleted kippers and soak into the thick bed of perfectly brown toast. I had barely put a bite in my mouth when Christopher said, “Tell me about that first discussion with Moriarty.”
“Why don’t you enjoy your omelet first?” I countered.
Christopher took a bite as if he had been ordered to do so by his schoolmaster. He looked across the table and gave me a sarcastic smile. “I’m eating. Now tell me what he said.”
There was no discouraging this lad from his purpose. I put another forkful of perfectly layered toast, kipper and eggs in my mouth and chewed for a few moments just to demonstrate I would not be so easily cowed by his insistence. “At first I told him what I knew about Holmes’s death.”
“Right. You said that,” he interrupted with his usual impatience.
“He asked what Lestrade thought, referring to him with a crude epithet.”
“Yes, go on,” he encouraged me.
“He spoke of Colonel Moran’s death the prior week in a nearby cell. He reminisced about Moran’s attempt on Holmes’s life, and how he hadn’t authorized it.”
“What year was that?” Christopher hadn’t touched another bite of his omelet. I took another mouthful of my breakfast.
“That would have been 1894,” I said, thinking back.
“I see. Go on,” he said, filing that fact away.
“We sparred a bit about why I’d come to him. Though I meant to conceal it, he knew I was looking for help.” I struggled to recall the conversation. I had been in such an emotional state that it was coming back to me like bits and pieces of a dream. “Oh, yes,” I recalled. “He asked me why I thought Holmes had created the hoax at the Reichenbach Falls where he and Moriarty had presumably gone over in a death struggle.”
“And what was your answer?” Christopher asked eagerly.
“To avoid Moriarty’s assassination attempts, of course.”
“And what did he say to that?”
“Predictably, he made it about himself. I can’t remember his reasoning, because it was so disordered, but it concluded with the pronouncement that Holmes engineered the entire affair because he wanted Moriarty all to himself.”
Christopher put his chin on palms as if thinking very deeply about what I had just said. I waved to our waiter to refill my pot of tea.
“What year would that have been…? That incident at the falls, I mean,” asked Christopher after having pondered the facts for another minute or so.
“It was 1891.” The waiter arrived at our table and refilled my tea. I returned to my breakfast, as did Christopher, who remained deep in thought as he ate. I wondered at the abrupt conclusion of his questioning, but was happy to finish my meal in peace.
20
T he plan was to take a quick stop by my flat in order for me to freshen up and get a change of clothes. When we arrived at the top of the stairs, I found my door had been pried open. Before I could reach to push the door fully open, Christopher grabbed my hand and gently nudged the door with the toe of his shoe. Neither of us expected the perpetrator to still be in the apartment. Undoubtedly, this b
urglary was done in the middle of night when the intruder had observed that I was not going to return home.
We stepped inside and took a visual inventory. The place had not been ransacked, though judging from the opened drawers and cabinets, it had been very thoroughly searched.
“What do you think he was looking for?” I asked Christopher.
“Where did you put the money?” he responded instantly.
I hurried to my bedroom closet. I had stuffed Holmes’s hundred and ten thousand pounds in the pockets and lining of my heavy winter coat with the plan of taking it to Pearson’s office in the morning and instructing him to add it to Holmes’s probate.
My heart sank when I saw that the door to closet was open and the coat gone. I slouched back into the living room where Christopher was already sweeping the crime scene for evidence. “The money’s gone, I take it,” he said with a quick glance at my disheartened expression.
He moved to my desk where a drawer had been pried open. “He’s also stolen your Webley revolver.” The theft of the weapon disturbed me more than the theft of the money. It was a personal violation. That weapon had been at my side during the war and during countless cases with Holmes. The thief had taken a valuable memento worth far more than just the cost of a revolver.
Christopher removed a pair of tweezers and one of his test tubes from his pocket and collected something from the desktop.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A hair,” he answered, taking it to the window to let the morning light shine through the test tube. “Black and most likely male. Do you have a pair of gloves? I foolishly forgot to bring mine.”
“Yes, of course, in my dresser.”
“Then I suggest you put them on, pick up the phone and have Scotland Yard come down here to take fingerprints.”
Within fifteen minutes, Gregson arrived with his fingerprint expert. The man’s name was Richardson and Christopher immediately began directing him around the flat, having him apply the dusting powder to those places he believed most likely to yield results.
Gregson, apparently irritated that Christopher had taken charge of his underling, stood in the middle of the room with arms crossed and face scowling. “What was he looking for?” he asked tersely.
“I suppose it was the hundred and ten thousand pounds we collected from Holmes’s cottage,” answered Christopher offhandedly. He took a moment to turn his glance away from Richardson, whose shoulder he had been looking over, as they moved from spot to spot. “And, unfortunately, he found it.”
“You took a hundred and ten thousand pounds from Holmes’s premises?” Gregson said in astonishment.
“Which was fully within my rights, as I am his executor,” I responded, giving a weak defense of my blunder.
“But there’s an ongoing investigation, Doctor,” he said, admonishing me.
“Christ, Gregson, let’s not stand on ceremony here. I am more distressed than anyone about this. I feel like a complete idiot.”
“All right then, Doctor, but from now on I’d like to be kept abreast of anything you learn during your investigation.”
“As soon as we have anything substantive, we will inform you, Inspector Gregson,” answered Christopher for the both of us. He kept his hands carefully behind his back as he stalked the room for more potential fingerprints sites.
“That’s very considerate of you, young Master Hudson. I will inform them down at Scotland Yard of your kindness.”
Christopher arrived at a table near the window where I had placed Holmes’s papers. “Judging from the scattering of these papers, I assume the intruder looked through them,” he said while leaning over to take a closer look. “It would be quite cumbersome to look through them with gloves on. Richardson, would you please dust this tabletop for me.”
Richardson obliged, and a slightly smeared fingerprint became visible an inch from the scattered pages.
“May well be Doctor Watson’s,” sniffed Gregson, not wanting to give credit too soon.
“That will be easy enough to tell,” responded Christopher.
“And if it’s not, all we have to do is search London and find the finger that made it. Maybe you can take care of that after your rugby match,” sniped Gregson, referring to Christopher’s outfit.
Christopher merely smiled back at him. “How’s that bee sting, Inspector?”
“It bothers me less than you do.” And he walked out of the flat.
21
R ichardson collected fingerprints from me and Christopher and, with immediacy, concluded that neither matched the one on the tabletop. Whoever the culprit was, he had left that single print and departed with a fortune in cash and my valued weapon. I had not made a very good showing in the last several days in terms of judgment and this was starting to weigh on me. I believe that Christopher sensed my self-doubt and did not belabor the recent events. “We’ll find your Webley soon enough, Doctor,” was his last comment on the subject as we slid into the Daimler for a drive to Fulham and a second visit to the building where Lilah Church supposedly resided.
The day was already beginning to get away from us as it was nearly noon when pulled up in front of the building on Averill. The three-story Gothic structure did not look so dreary as the first time I visited. The sun was shining warmly, encouraging the hope of an early spring. We mounted the stone steps and entered the cramped, dimly lit lobby, which seemed to have the ability to willfully exclude any of the cheerfulness from the outside world. “It’s on the third floor,” I said pointing toward the stairs.
All of a sudden, the first-floor apartment door was thrown open and the trollish landlady came charging out us. “What do you want now?” she demanded.
Christopher eyed her, quite unfazed by her aggressiveness. “Initially, I should like you to have that ugly mole on your cheek looked after.”
She produced a butcher knife from her apron pocket, and, with not the least concern, Christopher knocked it from her hand and pushed her against the wall with such force that her head snapped back against it with a thud. “You’re a nasty little woman,” he said holding her there. “Let’s call Gregson and have her arrested for threatening us with that knife.”
Again, there was something so economical and forceful about Christopher’s movements that they seemed to be completed before one even had the time to process them. “Leave her,” I said. “I’m sure she won’t trouble us further.”
The landlady looked up at Christopher fearfully, her formerly disagreeable demeanor fully drained from her. After a beat, he released her. “Get back in your cave, witch.”
She gratefully scurried back to her apartment as Christopher bent over, picked up the butcher knife and buried it two inches into the wall.
We proceeded to the stairway and climbed to the third floor. Before we reached the hallway, I could hear music playing from our destination, apartment E. It was a raucous American tune that I had heard a number of times and guessed was called “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” since the phrase was repeated over and over.
“Irving Berlin,” commented Christopher as we approached the door. “Good taste in music, though I prefer Scott Joplin for ragtime.”
“And I prefer Schubert,” I responded with a frown. I found this song simplistic and childish, and it seemed to grow even louder as I firmly knocked on the door of apartment.
The door immediately opened and we were greeted by a tall, thin man in his early twenties with dark hair and sharp features. Christopher had already described him to me from his sighting at the abbey, so I knew this was certainly Alexander Hollocks. Instead of the brooding quality that Christopher had attributed to him, he seemed quite amiable. “Doctor Watson, how good of you to visit. Please come in.”