by David Fable
“That will require hospitalization,” I informed him as I looked down. “I have just damaged your medial collateral ligament, however, luckily for you, a friend of mine is a surgical resident at Westminster Hospital doing research on just such injuries.” He continued to writhe on the floor.
“What is it you came here for, Mr. Hudson?” demanded Fitzroy imperiously.
“I want to know why you advocate for Moriarty. Is he blackmailing you as well?”
“I am not advocating for him. I am advocating for justice,” he proclaimed.
“Please, Lord Fitzroy, can we get past this horseshit? I am sick of listening to your protestation.” I stepped right up to his face with an expression that communicated how deeply serious my intentions were. “The man I most admired was murdered and then somebody tried to murder me, and I will spare nothing to get to the bottom of it. If you have something to do with it, I will see you hanged.”
This finally seemed to penetrate his lordly pretensions. “I knew and respected Sherlock Holmes and can assure you and Doctor Watson that I had nothing to do with his death.” He was quite convincing. “And if you continue to make slanderous and reckless statements about me I shall be forced to sue you.”
He turned and stormed out of the room, and I determined that the best course was to leave it at that for the moment. Phelps, the butler, entered accompanied by the cook and the gardener for support and held out a hand tentatively. “May I see you out,” he said with a quiver in his voice.
I glanced down at the chauffeur who was still on the floor clutching his knee and gritting his teeth. “My friend’s name is Doctor Linus Newell,” I told him and then found my own way out.
As the gardener opened the front gate for me, I gave a little wave to Lady Fitzroy, who was sitting in the garden smoking a cigarette. She merely stared and continued to smoke.
I was just about to unlock my motorbike when a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost limousine with closed curtains rumbled up to the curb. Wiggins’s lieutenant, Creed, emerged from the back and motioned for me to get in. Sir Patrick was sitting stoically behind the wheel looking straight ahead as the car idled ominously. Clearly I was displaying some reluctance regarding getting into that foreboding backseat when Wiggins poked his head out the door.
“Get in, Christopher. We’ll take care of your motorbike.” His head disappeared back inside the car as Creed, without waiting for a response, hoisted my bike onto the roof rack of the limo and motioned once again for me to get in. This time I complied.
The spacious automobile was upholstered with thick gray velvet and smelled of leather and tobacco. I sat down on the rolled velvet couch facing Wiggins with my back to Sir Patrick. On one side of Wiggins sat his impassive “nurse.” On the other, Creed seated himself and closed the door. Wiggins was wearing a purple velvet jacket with fur collar and a black derby hat. He had his Jesse James revolver tucked in his belt. The car instantly rumbled off, and Wiggins leaned forward with that inscrutable grin of his. “Now, Christopher,” he said soothingly. “I know you are keen to find Mr. 'olmes’s murderer. Clearly, you are becoming quite an excellent detective, and, if you should choose, perhaps an heir to Mr. 'olmes 'imself. But you are barking up the wrong tree 'ere, gent.”
“Is that what Fitzroy left the room to do? Call you?” I asked, trying to sound as nonconfrontational as possible. I was not interested in drawing Wiggins’s ire.
Unfortunately, my strategy didn’t seem to work as Wiggins gave me a cross look and called to Sir Patrick. “Patrick, takes us to Narrow Street, eh.”
“Narrow Street?” I thought to myself. That’s by the river in Bethnal Green, the area where I suspected Holmes was murdered.
Wiggins settled back in his seat and folded his hands across his lap as if commencing a lesson. “Lemme explain some things to you, Christopher…I’m a person 'oo 'as to straddle two worlds, and I’ve always done so. That has been my fate. It was determined the day me mum’s boyfriend beat me so bloody that I left home and took to the streets, and mind you, my story is no 'arsher than many what runs with me. But mine 'as a happier ending than most.” He held up his index finger for emphasis. “I made myself a success, and, on the way, I’ve learned that there are things tha’ 'appen in life that are unavoidable and unforeseeable. Even I cannot conduct all the strings, try as I might. Sometimes there’s no satisfaction. You must get used to this, Christopher. You will find that life is a series of complications.”
“Fitzroy, Smithwick, this Sergio fellow, who tried to murder Watson and me. All these things are interconnected, and I would like to know in what way.”
He leaned forward again. “’Ave I not been kind to you? ’Ave I not been extra gentle? You’re very brave. I get that. I’m brave myself. But you can be too brave.” Wiggins glanced at his nurse, and she immediately withdrew the velvet pouch from her satchel lying on the floor of the limousine. She prepared the injection as Wiggins continued. “You must understand that if I get arrested…get pinched for something serious, they’ll make a right sanctimonious hue and cry for justice. There’s plenty that would just as soon see me disappear. But I ain’t goin’ nowhere, right, Creed?” He gave Creed a jocular elbow. Creed smiled joylessly. He was a individual absolutely incapable of mirth. “Now suppose you was to run 'round askin’ questions about Spanish gentlemen who may or may not be in my acquaintance,” continued Wiggins. “In that case someone who gave you that information might get into trouble.”
Wiggins saw the concern register on my face. That “someone” he was referring to was Daisy.
“You see, one thing that I demand of my people is loyalty. They must be trustworthy o’ else trouble follows. I’m very 'ard on those that I believe cannot be trusted.” He stared at me silently. I felt myself turning pale imagining what might have become of the woman who had entrusted me to protect her as my source of information.
Wiggins noted my distress. “Don’t you worry young Master 'udson, I would not 'urt Daisy any more than I would 'urt one of me own children. Ordinarily, she would never break such a strict rule, but she has a soft spot in 'er heart for you. I wager, 'owever, that she will not make the same mistake again.”
The nurse pinned Wiggins’s forearm to her lap, found a useable vein and injected him. He took a deep, relaxed breath and rolled down his sleeve. “Now, I believe it is adequate to accept that this unfortunate Spanish chap is dead, so let that be an end to it.”
“I can’t, Wiggins. I have to know the answers.” I knew this wasn’t the response that Wiggins wanted, but it was the only one I was willing to give him.
He looked up at the roof of the limousine and closed his eyes in exasperation. “Might we talk about somethin’ else? You’re a sports fan, are you not? Who do you think will be the champs this year? Bolton or Newcastle?”
“I think it will be Blackburn,” I answered.
“Crompton is good, I grant you that, but my money’s on Newcastle.” The limousine rolled to a stop. “Get out, Christopher,” he commanded.
I twisted around and looked through the windshield to see where we were. Dusk was settling and we were parked in a poor and desolate part of Narrow Street no more than a fifty-yard dash from the Thames. Wiggins stared at me with his arms crossed. “What d’ya think? I’m goin’ ta tie rocks to your ankles and throw you in the river? Get the fuck out. I want to show you something.”
Sir Patrick had already exited the car and opened the back door for me. I climbed out to find we had stopped in front of a newly constructed four-story brick building with granite-framed windows each with its own flower box. There was a fenced park next to the handsome structure that took up half the block, and children cavorted on the swings and in the sandboxes, their chatter drifting toward us like happy music.
“Welcome to Narrow Gardens, Christopher,” gloated Wiggins as he climbed out of the limousine with Creed at his side. At the sight of Wiggins, children started rushing forward from the building, from the park, from the hopscotch games on the sidewalk. Al
l flooded toward him declaring, “He’s here!” “It’s Wiggins!” “Hello, Mr. Wiggins.” They tugged at his pant legs and the hem of his coat, yammering and clambering.
“All right, children…All right.” He beamed down at them, reaching into his coat pockets and pulling out fistfuls of paper-wrapped taffies and showering them down on the youngsters, who dove and squealed, gathering up all the candy.
“You see, Christopher,” he said turning to me. “I’m a bit of a Robin Hood.” We walked up the steps into a pristine, marble-lined lobby with an elevator and mail compartments for twenty-four families. We took the stairs with Creed and Sir Patrick trailing close behind us. Wiggins’s silent nurse stayed behind in the limousine.
On the second floor a group of women had clearly heard of Wiggins’s arrival and they were waiting in the hall like a welcoming committee. Some were holding babies, others had toddlers hanging from their aprons. “Hello, Mr. Wiggins,” they greeted him like an adoring chorus.
“’Ello, ladies,” answered Wiggins with a tip of his hat.
One woman ran into her apartment and returned with a mincemeat pie and humbly offered it up to him. “I made this for you special, Mr. Wiggins.”
“That’s my favorite, Mrs. Douglas. You will make me fat with that,” he joked, shaking a finger at her and handing the pie to Sir Patrick.
We walked to the next set of stairs. “You see these people,” said Wiggins as we ascended to the next floor. “’Omeless they were. Sacked by the factories, beat by their fathers and husbands, abandoned by this proper English society.”
“I gather you own this building,” I said as we reached the thirdlevel.
“Not officially, as you might 'ave learned from your research at the assessor’s office.” Wiggins was remarkable. He seemed to have eyes everywhere. “I 'ave people like Mrs. Smithwick assume title of the property for me. Makes it easier to get permits and such.”
“Especially for the gambling parlors and brothels,” I observed.
“There’s plenty of business outside the East End. A businessman always has to look to expansion,” he shrugged as if that statement was self-evident and the morality of the enterprise of no significance. “Sometimes the neighbors get a little touchy with the likes of me opening up one of my establishments in their area.”
“And I assume that’s where Lord Fitzroy comes in.”
“It’s useful to 'ave friends in 'igh places. It’s funny, you know. It’s the women who give us resistance with construction. They’ve been get-tin’ very active with their suffrage and all that. To my way o’ thinkin’, the prime minister should put a woman in his cabinet, so someone could reason with those suffragettes.” He sighed. “All things in good time, I suppose.” We reached the third floor and the residents were lined up outside their doors to enthusiastically greet him.
“Welcome, Mr. Wiggins. So good to see you,” smiled a woman holding an infant in her arms.
“Always a pleasure to see you, Mrs. Greeley.” He kissed the baby’s forehead and gave Mrs. Greeley’s bottom a squeeze as we moved on. “Very sweet lady,” he said glancing over at me.
We climbed to the top floor. It reminded me very much of the floor that Mrs. Smithwick directed us to when Sergio attempted to murder us. It had the same deep-red carpeting and elegant sconces on the wall. It also appeared to be deserted. This penthouse was clearly off-limits for the other residents of the building. Sir Patrick bounded past us and unlocked a door marked only with a “W.”
The inside of the flat struck me more as the headquarters of a company than a residence. Two banks of windows looked south across the Thames to Surrey Quays and West as far as Buckingham Palace. The floor was richly carpeted and the walls paneled. There was a mahogany conference table, a dozen leather chairs and an easel with a large map of the city and pins indicating the location of various properties.
Wiggins walked me to the window. The light was fading over the city. “This town is changin’, Christopher,” he said as he motioned to the view. “It used to be all about what last name you was born with. Very soon it’ll be all about success. That’ll be the standard. What you’ve accomplished not what some ancient ancestor accomplished.” Wiggins guided me over to the west-facing window with a brass telescope on a stand. The sightline extended beyond Tower Bridge, the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, all the way to the Palace. “From 'ere I can see twenty-seven of my properties. Over 'alf are outside the East End.” He nodded contentedly, pulled out a cigar and lit it. Creed and Sir Patrick watched silently from the other side of the room. “Some of my buildings,” said Wiggins with a sweep of his arm, “are like this one. Others are places of business. One feeds the other. That’s 'ow business works.” He put his arm around my shoulder. “Yes, I had Mrs. Smithwick purchase property in 'er name for my benefit. And yes I 'ave Lord Fitzroy and others use their influence on my be’alf occasionally…Again, that’s business. Now I tell you these things because I want you to understand the interconnections. I am trying to be as open as I can. But I caution you, young Mr. 'udson…stay out o’ my business. Mr. 'olmes was not killed because of any real estate deal. I can guarantee you that.”
“And what about Freddy Carson? Why was he killed?” I asked.
“What is the life of one fat prison guard?” replied Wiggins. The dusk light was rapidly fading and Wiggins’s face was half shadowed. A cloud of smoke drifted from his mouth toward the ceiling. “You 'ave a bright future, and you will learn that over the course of time that you will 'ave to overlook some questionable and perhaps even distasteful situations. This is the great irony of life. The Jekyll and 'yde of it all. A man can’t be judged by a few acts of kindness nor can he be judged by his mistakes. The measure of a man is the sum of his deeds.”
“That’s an admirable philosophy, Wiggins. But I need to deal in facts. What do you know of the black Renault that I chased from outside your Butchers Road building last night?” I asked, emboldened for reasons I couldn’t even explain.
Wiggins glanced at his two men across the room. I could see from the slight glimmer on Creed’s face that they knew what I was talking about. Wiggins looked back at me without a trace of the jovial tolerance he had displayed up until now. “I will tell you somethin’, Christopher. Professor Moriarty 'as placed ''is hand of protection upon you as 'ave I, and none who fear us will harm you. I will say no more on this matter. You must let this go.” He turned and strode out the apartment. Creed quickly joined him and Sir Patrick stared at me, waiting for me to follow.
“After you, sir,” he said with his perfect diction.
I took a last gaze at the darkened view of the venerable city of five million souls and then let him escort me out.
On the way to Baker Street, Wiggins received another injection from his nurse and dozed off. Both she and Creed sat silently, staring straight ahead. I wondered if the nurse was able to speak. I never heard her utter a word. I knew Creed preferred not to speak aloud. It struck me that they were quite good companions for Wiggins, who liked to speak excessively.
The limousine pulled smoothly up in front of 221 Baker Street. Wiggins was slouched over, snoring. Creed got out and retrieved my motorbike from the roof rack. I thanked him and watched the taillights of the Silver Ghost recede into the darkness. Due to the unexpected intervention of Wiggins, I had missed my appointment at Scotland Yard with Watson, Lestrade and Gregson. I trusted that Watson would fill me in later. I rolled the bike into the hallway, parked in front of my parents’ flat and went upstairs to analyze the evidence I had collected over the past few days.
When I got to my apartment, I saw that my mother had tidied up and changed the linens. I sat down in Holmes’s trusty armchair and contemplated my list of things to do. Mother, clearly having heard me come in, brought me up a rather early dinner of leg of lamb and roasted potatoes. I was glad to have it since I ate very little of the greasy fish and chips that my friend Colin had feasted upon at lunch.
I finished my meal in minutes and retrieved
the cigar that Wiggins had given me several nights before and lit it in order to compare the ash to that which I had found in the backseat of the Renault. The cigar was the same rare type that I observed Moriarty smoking in his cell, and I was fairly confident of what the results of the comparison would be.