by David Marcum
“Are you the Squire’s friend? He told me you would come and buy up the rest of my flowers.”
Holmes’s eyebrows shot up. “Squire? Indeed! And did he tell you why I wished to buy them?”
“For the funeral!” the old woman snapped. “For shame, sir. If you’re going to help, you ought to have thought of this long ago - not on the spur of the moment!” She shook a ciosan of baby’s breath and plumes in Holmes’s face, although she had to strain to do so against my friend’s greater height. “It is lucky you are, and that I am willing to deliver, else I’d have someone do it and charge you extra for bother!”
My friend is rarely speechless, but he required a moment to collect his voice. When he did, it was to bow humbly and tip his hat. “I certainly do thank you for your willingness to help me out, Madam. And more than pleased to pay whatever fee is required to balm my error.”
“None o’ that, sir. You’re doin’ the right thing and that’s proper. I’ll have your posies, and you have the fool’s luck, for I’ve a new basket of white carnations for the dining-table, begonias too. You’ll have to wait for my message-boy to bring the baskets. I can’t be in two places at once.”
“That is suitable.” Holmes gave our address and, after a bit of haggling, passed on half the necessary amount to seal the bargain, and accepted a posy for a receipt. As soon as the transaction passed, she turned her head and ignored Holmes in favour of a group of young men wanting her wares.
“An interesting woman, Watson,” Holmes murmured as we went on our way. His eyes sparkled with mirth. “I confess to some renewed respect for Gregson. She is an excellent pair of ears and eyes.”
“I can hardly tell so much from our brief encounter.”
“It is a facet of human nature that she recognises, Watson. Because she is easily seen by the public, the public may comfortably believe she has nothing to hide. As I was threading my way through her knot of customers, I was hearing all sorts of gossip that would have titillated the paying rags. And yet it is my impression her news is not for sale. She sends it all to the police rather than to a far more lucrative client.” He chuckled at the thought.
“How can you possibly construe that?”
“Because there was a policeman politely standing in the shadows of the alley-way, watching to make certain nothing untoward happened to our little friend.”
“I did not see a policeman!”
“Because you, like everyone else, were drawn to an easier target for your eye. A policeman must make his rounds every quarter-hour, but this one was standing still. So common is the sight of the English Bobby that one often forgets they are even there. This is a woman who prefers to trade her information for safety and a reliable - if much-lower - income as the Yard’s ears and eyes.”
“For all of this, Gregson appears to be going through a terrible lot of trouble. Inventing a funeral and a ‘Squire’?”
“I would daresay it is his way of assuring me who is behind this fateful meeting.” Holmes looked down at the posy in his hand, and chuckled again. “Squire Fatt... someone enjoys your writings, Watson.” He held out the card holding his receipt for the flowers. I saw in Gregson’s strong hand, HANS FATT, ESQ.
I needed a moment to see the little joke. “Gregson! Fat, square hands!”
“What a thing it is, to have admirers, Watson!”
Holmes laughed nearly all the way to Baker Street.
Part II
The report arrived after supper by a tatterdemalion courier under a head of badly-cropped hair, white with lousing-chalk. The youth ignored Mrs. Hudson’s exclamations at the door, came up to our rooms, and held out a basket of carnations. His other hand held a pannier of clucking hens, and he insisted on standing barefoot upon the carpet until Holmes hastily paid him in full.
“And now Gregson employs his favourite messenger,” Holmes commented as our guest left as swiftly as he had entered, with only a smear of chalk and a tuft of feathers to prove his presence. “Young Irish is a marvel, Watson! His inability to speak allows him to go to places you or I would hesitate to approach without a weapon. The common fable among the superstitious criminal is that a lad marked from birth carries his own luck about him, and they would be wise not to challenge it.” He lifted a cream folder from the bottom of the basket and blew off the dust. “There is also the unfortunate myth that a child born dumb is also witless - as if one needs a tongue in order to have a working brain! Would that the reverse were true!”
I sent the flowers with Mrs. Hudson and left Holmes to his feverish reading. It is best to let Holmes tell his story when he is ready. I had just picked up one of my diversion novels and was engrossed in a sea adventure when Holmes suddenly jumped up. With a vile exclamation, he thrust the folder and a sheaf of notes into a single pile. He spun to the fire and yanked up the tobacco-slipper. His other hand clutched up the small travelling-pipe that he tended to favor when his feet and mind were equally restless.
“Have you found something?”
“There are times,” snapped my friend, “when I am frustrated at a vital case that has no agreeable threads attached for one to follow.” He paced back and forth as he smoked through half a bowl before explaining further. “I have plenty of data and so little of it is useful! My gain is microscopic, and yet it is precisely the information that was ‘allowed’ to his case. I must wait, Watson, and after my drought the wait is interminable.
“Lestrade was indeed secretly part of the case, and one of his last communications was to assure Gregson that the ‘cargo’ had been rescued, but two days ago he vanished without a word. The only messenger between our friend and the rest of the Yard was killed this very morning by a passing motor-car that, by an exquisite fluke of Natural Laws (should you believe in co-incidence), happened to be driven by Joseph Amscott, the valet of Sir Reginald Grey, the unloved godson of the Chairman for Acquisitions of the London Historical and Cultural Museum.”
I was shocked and worried, for I could tell my friend was already thinking ahead to a troubling future beyond my grasp. “This does not sound promising, but I do not recognise either of the other names.”
Holmes paced against his agitation. “Give me a cold-eyed garrotter, a hot-blooded crime of passion, or a fiendish brain twisted into crime before I deal with their ilk! Sir Reginald is bad enough by himself, but glued to his side is the crocodilian Amscott, who knows that as a servant he is invisible, and so spies without qualm to privacy or decency. In the past they have sold ‘intelligence’ to the likes of Milverton, but have yet to learn from his example. They once sold information to Langdale Pike, but were disappointed when he withheld the information after payment. They are no ordinary dabblers in espionage and blackmail, Watson! They prefer their disgusting information to be revealed to the public - after they bleed the victim dry! They make a masque of their activities by selling to the professional blackmailers, who never reveal their sources - and so they can proclaim wide-eyed innocence that they haven’t leaked any story to the press at all! And as for the press - Sir Reginald owns at least half of The London Regale!”
My friend’s anger was as palpable as the smoke from his pipe.
“Holmes, to say a knight of the realm is entangled in a crime is a most serious charge that must stand in court. You are absolutely certain these are the men in question?”
With a stifled oath, Holmes snatched up a newspaper that had already sacrificed much of its content to his scrap-books that morning, and threw the wad into the fire simply for the satisfaction of watching it burn. The last time I had seen him in such a mood we had been discussing blackmailers, and I was apprehensive for his explanation.
“Sir Reginald has a remarkable face, owning the most Hellenic of profiles, in which there is hardly a discernable shift from browline to nose. He has not the false vanity to hide it, but plenty of the genuine deadly sin to exploit himself as a model for Classical artists. Add
to this a face that could be carved from flawless alabaster, hair black as cherries, and eyes blue as the sparks of electricity meeting tinfoil, and we also have the despair of all art patrons with marriageable daughters. He is a shrewd fellow, conscious of the great amounts of money that grease the military wheels within the family, whilst avoiding the same engine for its discipline and duty for sacrifice. Hence, he hovers forever between Museum and Militant, never quite one nor the other, always avoiding the third dreaded M, Matrimony, hoping of snaring someone with a Brobdingnagian-enough fortune for his inflated tastes. That fortune seems to not exist in this country, a Swiftian fairyland, or even America, where robber barons are happy to throw over a lifetime of mercenary achievement in trade for a daughter’s title.”
Holmes at his wittiest was often at his deadliest. “You make him a sadly remarkable fellow.”
“Oh, he is precisely that. Despite a clever and agile brain well versed in chemistry and metallurgy, he chooses to rely on his less concrete qualities of fleeting good looks and an acuity that will only dull with age. There is no limit to his social graces.” Holmes announced this terrible failing with deep regret. “His family brought themselves down by investments with the Congo Free State, and I cannot sympathize for their losses.”
Holmes spun, struck upon his small shelf of books and held up his new copy of Heart of Darkness to illuminate his point. “He is brought down even lower with the new tensions of Europe. His wounds smart and prick upon a base nature. I imagine him perched in his lofty rooms in the Leesome Estates overlooking the Museum, brooding as he sulks at his lack of easy solutions.”
Holmes blew a cloud of smoke upon the shattered bust of Moran’s last opinion. He had refused to discard it after its use upon his return, and there were times that I thought he mentally consulted it in conversation, his Yorik to Hamlet.
“Alas for simply applying for a search warrant - The Greys have so many ties within the government that it goes beyond saying a veritable army is now blindly covering up all traces of this blunder, childishly hoping all will end well. This includes parties of standing with Belgium, Austria, and Italy. They are practiced in covering the mishaps of their black sheep in the past and too deep in complicity to protest now.” Holmes paused to sniff and smoked a desultory opinion of this outcome. “Watson, I have been blessed with a plethora of criminal experience in my life, but there is rarely one so aggravatingly offensive as a man born with nothing but advantage who cheats his way to better things! They consider themselves to be foxes, but I am more disposed to think of lampreys. Sir Reginald is free, but luckily his vicious Sergeant-at-Arms is behind bars for the collision. Thus the master is baffled, for he relies on his dog to carry out the dirty and sullied tasks of his desires. There is only one solution, Watson, and that is to find the wolf wherever it is, even if that means breaking into the Bank of England, and return it to the Museum before Sir Reginald finagles some persuasion of court to release his dangerous canine whom, I assure you, will hunt down the missing Lestrade and murder him for the Wolf.”
I have rarely looked forward to any notion of law-breaking with joy or a discernible anticipation, even if it was in service to the greater good. My friend’s cheerless assessment was against wagering on a happy outcome. “You have leapt to a remarkable conclusion in a very short time.”
“It was anticipated. These ‘fulsomely mundane’ cases of late, which are good for my purse but atrocious to my mental health, have beggared my attention! I have been following the trail in the news and listening for the slightest scrap of information. I hoped time and again that one of these exercises in unvarying dullness would be a tangle with the wolf at the end! Exposure at this point would create a scandal, and scandals have a way of entrenching enmities. The Museum is currently in most delicate negotiations with Germany over the Danube Collection, and the merest taint of mischief would undo half a century of work. They will politely sever Sir Reginald’s ties with them as soon as their treasure is recovered - but as long as it is missing they cow to his commands. I should have been consulted long ago, Watson, but no, the hour is late.” He turned again to his bust with a frown.
“The Wolf is quite small, Watson. If you were to empty out your medical-bag you could fit it within. Other than its heritage going back to Boudicca, its value has yet to be fully explored. A full study is required before its origin as British, Roman, or Continental can be determined. There has never been such a discovery in the British Isles, and clues to its identity would tell us much we did not know about the era.”
“If it is so unique, then it would be very difficult to calculate its value. Where shall you begin?”
“I shall meet Gregson at the police morgue early tomorrow for his examination of the poor messenger. There were no discernible ways to pass information to Gregson, so either it was stolen outright - which I admit is possible considering the crowd - or it remains hidden on his person. Gregson’s report implies that he knows where it is. There will be some pressure to create a hasty interment, but the flowers will emphasize my desire to pay for his funeral.”
“Holmes, that is most generous of you!”
“It is also expedient. I need a public motive for my concern.”
Despite his careless words, I could tell the man’s death did indeed trouble him.
“It is a black business, Watson! I wonder how much money and influence Sir Reginald is stretching now to see that he and Amscott escape their actions while a man lies dead? It is never enough, Watson. It is never enough.”
I confess that with this pronouncement, we were both plunged into gloom. Gregson was indeed on a troubling case, and Lestrade was missing. Holmes did not speak again, but I knew his worries were identical to my own.
After a restless night in which I slept little and Holmes did not even bother, we sat at the breakfast-table and pored through the morning news, despite the haze of Holmes’s round-the-clock smoking. It was our hope to find a precious few details about Gregson’s messenger. If one were to believe the papers, Old Tom Rees, a shabby-genteel always willing to earn a few pennies for his bread, had managed to step down from his omnibus in front of the Yard, and directly into the path of a passing motor-car.
Perhaps in a conscious effort to strike at the unassailable higher caste, the papers had managed to excavate the most pitiable details of Rees’ life. I was disgusted at the reveal of oddments I felt were too personal to air in public: His father had been one of the last of the hallowed Bow Street Runners, before the Yard supplanted their jurisdiction. As a lad, Young Tom had wished to follow in his footsteps, but the lack of funds had inspired him to take the Queen’s Shilling for the Crimean War. A naval shell at the Åland Islands finished his prospects with a right eye unable to see corresponding light, and a lack of circulation upon the corresponding foot that caused it to wither up until it was several sizes too small. He had put a brave face on his tragedy, creating a unique method of padding his foot, as he could not afford a professional’s artificial shoe. When he was able to walk, he made coin by messages and small jobs, such as reading to the blind with his good left eye.
The car had struck him on his blind and weak right side, and Sir Reginald’s friends were feverishly trying to prove that no one could tell the poor fellow could not see them driving up past the omnibus. The outraged passengers insisted it was murder. Between the two, I did not think it would be a satisfying case.
“It says he was twice childless and thrice-widowered but never friendless.” I read aloud. “And renowned for his kind and harmless manner to all as he took small jobs for his bread.”
Holmes grunted. “He was well-loved by the older Yarders, though he rarely demonstrated the fact.” He rocked the bowl of his pipe against his coffee-cup in remonstrance to the news. “I never relied on him for information, for he was steadfast and loyal the same way Mrs. Sword is to her proper employers. I do recall him wandering meekly through the stree
ts with one message or another, tapping along with his crooked cane, and delighting in the smallest cup of tea if it had but one drop of honey or treacle in it. He would spend the night at a friend’s house, partake of their bread and butter with tea, and sleep on their floor by the grate or upon a couch if they had one. I mislike everything I am hearing, and I want nothing more than to see the facts for myself.”
“I wish I could come with you but I have my duties.”
“And I would have been glad of your presence, but I will not have you neglect your profession.” Holmes left the table and placed his violin across his lap for a few minutes of slow scraping as he waited for me to leave.
Part III
My patients kept me out longer than anticipated, but though I frequently consulted with my correspondence and my secretary, I received no illuminating note or wire from Holmes. Going with the data at hand and imagining I was using Holmes’s methods, I determined that I would I find empty rooms when I returned to Baker Street. When I did, I was duly surprised to see the window of our sitting-room cracked and a thick plume of Holmes’s shag tobacco rolling out to mix with the dampening gloom.
If the London Fog had decided to come in for a visit, the sight before my eyes would be less strange. Holmes was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the carpet before the fire with his back up against a large pinewood box, stuffed with clothing so worn and old-fashioned that I knew that my even my friend’s love of theatre and performance would have scorned to wear the weeds. A single dark sleeve draped limply over the rim of the box, and I saw the unforgettable glimpse of military metal pins and ribbons.
He was staring transfixed with a frightening intensity at a clutter of photographs, cast like leaves upon the floor in all directions around him, as though he were some sort of dragon regarding a hoard that only he could value. A police truncheon rested across his ankles like a forgotten dog. He held the small briar pipe, reserved for troubled ruminations, pressed between his hand and his tips as he stared unblinking upon the floor, and upon my second glance, I saw his photographs were of a dead man positioned upon a morgue-table. Even from my place at the door I could tell they were uncommonly graphic.