“That is what I’m afraid of,” said Holmes drily as led us forward.
An orderly standing in the doorway looked at us in mild curiosity, not knowing if any of us needed his assistance. He was smoking a pipe, and was preparing to set it down when Mycroft Holmes signaled him to remain where he was. “Need to find someone, do you?” he asked, doing his best to be helpful.
“We know what we seek, thank you,” Mycroft Holmes told him as we went into the hospital.
The smell as we stepped through the door was of carbolic and that underlying sweetish odor of sickness that all hospitals possessed. Ahead was a counter behind which an uniformed attendant waited, his ledger open and ready.
“Good day,” said Mycroft Holmes as he went up to the counter. “I have here with me Mister Halil Kerem who believes you may have his brother’s body in your morgue. He has come to identify it.”
The attendant behind the desk scowled at us. “I don’t know about that,” he said, giving what was obviously a routine response for him.
“It is of some urgency, as I understand it,” said Mycroft Holmes. The attendant made notations in the ledger. “The police will be here in an hour or so. You may sit on the benches until they come.”
“Must the police be here for him to make an identification?” Holmes asked, knowing it was not required by law—only that there were two witnesses to the identification, which Mycroft Holmes and I would be.
“It’s easier if they are.” The attendant was prepared to ignore us entirely.
“Easier for whom?” Holmes was beginning to lose patience.
The attendant did not answer; he seemed wholly engrossed in his ledger.
Mycroft Holmes laid his forearm on the counter and leaned forward; although he lost none of the affability he had extended in his initial greeting, there was no denying the authority he projected as he said, “My good man, Mister Kerem is in great distress. He is a stranger in this country, come to find his brother. Now he has been led to understand his brother may be the victim of a crime. It is his most earnest hope that the police are in error and the man you have here is not his brother. But unless you admit him—and us—to see the body, he must continue in the agony of uncertainty. Surely you have had other men come here to identify bodies?”
The attendant had backed up and now stood pressed against a filing cabinet. “In the basement. The second hall on your right. Take those stairs,” he said, pointing to our left. “There is an orderly. He’ll show you the body.”
“Excellent,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Thank you for your help.”
The attendant nodded once, and tried to restore his importance as we went to the stairs, descending into the basement down a broad flight of shallow stairs. It occurred to me that the reason the descent was made so easy was that stretchers had to be carried up and down them with some frequency, a recognition that seemed somewhat ghoulish. At the second hall on the right the air was distinctly colder than on the floor above, and there was a searching, persistent odor of death that shocked me, not because I did not expect it, but because I did.
“Those double doors,” said Mycroft Holmes, and I remembered he had been here before. “The attendant will be at a small desk on the other side; he will show us the body in question. Let me deal with him, Mister Kerem.”
“Of course, Mister Holmes,” said Mister Kerem.
I glanced at the Turk and saw puzzlement in his face. I supposed he was trying to reconcile his first impression of Mycroft Holmes as a bureaucratic nonentity with the manner in which Holmes had secured our admission to this place. I made a mental note to myself to mention this to Holmes later, when we were private again. Now I gave my full attention to the attendant, who looked up in surprise as we came through the door.
Without any preamble, Mycroft Holmes addressed the middle-aged fellow who sat behind the desk. a racing-book in his hands. “You have an unidentified body here, that of a young man. He has a tattoo on his shoulder.”
“What is that to you?” The attendant was less officious than his colleague above-stairs, but he was also less easily impressed.
“This man”—Mycroft Holmes indicated Mister Kerem—“has reason to believe the body may be that of his missing brother. We have come with him as witnesses, in case it is.”
The attendant rose from behind his desk. “I’ll show you. But I warn you, he isn’t a pretty sight, not if it’s the lad I’m thinking of.”
“I am prepared,” said Mister Kerem. “Allah is Merciful.”
“That’s as may be,” said the attendant as he led the way along a row of draped tables. “The killers weren’t, I can tell you that. Had to have been more than one of them, the way he’s beat-up.”
I almost winced at this unfeeling remark, but thought it just as well to let it pass, to save Mister Kerem any more unpleasantness than was necessary. Perhaps the attendant was trying to prepare us for the body. I supposed the attendant had to subdue any trace of sympathy or he would become incapable of working here. Perhaps, I thought, in a clumsy way, the attendant was attempting to prepare Mister Kerem for what he would see.
The attendant stopped at the eleventh table. “This is the lad, then,” he said. “He went through a lot before he died, the poor sod. The face is pretty bad. I’ll turn him over for you so you can see the tattoo.” With that, he whipped back the drape, revealing the battered and mutilated body of a young man with dark, curly hair. His eyes were gone, and his nose and ears. Three of his fingers were missing, as were his testicles.
Mister Kerem said nothing; an instant later the attendant turned the body over.
I saw Mycroft Holmes start in alarm, then at once mask the consternation he felt. He leaned forward to study the tattoo, the line between his heavy brows deepening. Whatever it was he saw, he did not like it.
“Is it the tattoo, then?” The attendant looked from one of us to the other.
“It is,” said Mister Kerem in a voice so neutral it was hard to distinguish his words. “This man is my brother,” he said more firmly.
“You are certain?” the attendant said to make sure. “The tattoo is enough?”
“It is enough,” said Mister Kerem.
“Very good,” said the attendant, and motioned to us to turn away while he put the body on his back once again and concealed it under the drape. “If you’re sure, we can fill out the forms now, and you may send for the undertaker as soon as the police will permit it.”
Mister Kerem looked shocked. “Can I not remove him myself?”
The attendant shrugged. “Not until the police say you may.” He stepped away from the table. “I’m sorry. But your brother was murdered, and the courts call a body part of the evidence. It’s the law.”
“How can they?” Mister Kerem looked very much distressed. “They cannot be so ... so hardhearted as to keep me from doing my duty—”
The attendant did his best to calm Mister Kerem. “Let’s get the paperwork taken care of first, shall we. Then we will see what the police demand. The sooner this is done, the sooner you may have him.” This was true enough as far as it went, but was more of a polite gesture than an assurance of swifter action on the part of the police.
“If I must,” said Mister Kerem, glancing at Mycroft Holmes. “You can help, can you not? You got us here.”
“I’ll see what I can do; first you must provide the information asked. Then we may have reason to encourage the police,” said Holmes, and pulled me some small distance aside while the attendant extracted a form from his desk and cast about for his inkwell and pens. “Did you see that tattoo?” he asked me in a whisper, keeping a covert eye on Mister Kerem and the attendant, about fifteen feet away from us. His voice was not much more than a breath, but his intensity made it seem louder.
“Most unusual,” I said. “A winged serpent in a kind of circle.”
&
nbsp; “The winged serpent had a man’s face,” Mycroft Holmes declared. “The colors are quite vivid.”
“Did it have a face?” I took his word for that. “What is the significance?”
“It is the inner circle of the Brotherhood,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Their elite.”
It took a moment for me to encompass the implications. “Oh, no. You cannot think that that young man—” I began, horrified at the notion.
“No, I do not think he was one of their elite. But he certainly has had contact with one of them. And recently. That tattoo is quite new, to be so bright.” Mycroft Holmes blinked his eyes as if to sort through a number of visions, each more unpleasant than the last. “I wonder how much Mister Kerem knows of this?”
“Surely he must know something,” I said, giving voice to the fear that had touched me as soon as Mycroft Holmes identified the tattoo.
“If he does, his presence here is more distressing than anything he reported to us.” Holmes made a swift, dismissing gesture. “Well, we must take a page from his book: we must not reveal anything to him.”
“Is that why you have changed your manner?” I ventured.
“In part,” he replied. “Kerem has singled me out for some reason. I hope I may cause him to do something to reveal what that reason is. If you will assist me in that effort, I will be most appreciative, dear boy.”
“As you wish,” I said. “Shall you feign ignorance about the tattoo?”
“Of course, about its age and its significance. I will do my best to learn all that I can from Mister Kerem. And so shall you,” said Mycroft Holmes, his grey eyes like the North Sea in winter. “Follow my lead, Guthrie. And be alert.”
“That I will, sir,” I said, and moved with Holmes as he went back to stand by Mister Kerem.
“I have supplied as much information as I can,” Halil Kerem said. “I do not know how my brother came into England, nor in whose company. If I did, I should surely inform the police.” He was talking as much to the attendant as to Mycroft Holmes. “I know only that Yujel is dead and now our family must mourn his loss.”
With a discreet cough, Mycroft Holmes asked, “Do you happen to know how long he has had that tattoo? And how he came to have it?”
Mister Kerem rounded on him, his face working with emotion. “Tattoo! Tattoo? What does that matter now? It was useful only to identify his body.” He added something in Turkish that did not sound complimentary.
“I understand your upset, Mister Kerem. I would be distraught at the loss of my brother, too. But we must start somewhere, and that tattoo is an obvious place. It is certainly one of the first questions the police will have.” He had returned to his bureaucratic persona; he did not quite dither, but he came close to it. “While you have been providing answers for this man”—he inclined his head toward the morgue attendant—“I have been trying to anticipate the questions the police will ask, in order to hasten their release of the body to you. The tattoo is so unusual, I am convinced they will fix upon it as having bearing on this case.” He managed a nervous little smile. “The sooner they are satisfied, the sooner you may arrange for ... the funeral.”
“Very well,” said Mister Kerem, making himself speak calmly while he used an over-large handkerchief to wipe his eyes. “The tattoo was an old one. He received it when he was eleven, as I recall. It was administered by a man who has done tattoos all his life. It is supposed to protect the man who has it.” He stopped, his voice becoming unsteady as he again fought back tears. “Yujel was proud of it. He showed it off whenever he could.”
“Just so,” said Mycroft Holmes. “So his having the tattoo was known to many?”
“I would suppose,” said Mister Kerem, turning suddenly to the attendant. “Is there anything you can do to give my brother a bit more dignity?”
The attendant laughed. “Dignity? Why, he’s dead, saving your feelings, sir. Dignity is nothing to the dead. They have no need of it, no, nor of anything else.” He saw the outrage in Mister Kerem’s eyes. “If it would make you happier, sir, I’ll put his body near the back, away from the rest.”
“Thank you,” said Mister Kerem stiffly. “On behalf of my brother.”
“I don’t want to add to your grief,” said the attendant apologetically.
“Of course not,” said Mister Kerem. “You have been most helpful.” He spoke mechanically now, as if he could not continue to speak if he admitted any emotion.
“Now, you two gentlemen,” the attendant went on, “you will need to sign here as witnesses of this identification. The police might ask you about it, or they might not. Just your name and direction, if you would?” He held out the pen to Mycroft Holmes, who took it and scrawled his name on the line indicated, and added his direction as the Diogenes Club beneath. When he offered me the pen, I dipped the nib in the inkwell, wrote my name and Curzon Street. “Very good,” said the attendant as he took out an old square of blotting paper. “Thank you.”
“Are we finished here?” Mister Kerem asked.
“I should think so, Mister Kerem,” said Mycroft Holmes in a self-effacing voice that seemed comical to me, “perhaps we should report to the police now. Let this fellow get on with his work.”
“Yes,” said Mister Kerem. “This is an oppressive place, and I do not want to remain here.” He took a half-crown from his pocket and handed it to the attendant. “For seeing that my brother’s body is shown more respect.”
The attendant took the coin, paying no heed to the critical look Mycroft Holmes gave him. “Why, thank you, sir,” he said, and pocketed the coin.
“For that, be certain Mister Kerem’s wishes are honored,” said Holmes in an emphatic way.
“That I will,” said the attendant, and I, for one, believed him.
As we climbed the stairs to the ground floor, I studied my employer’s demeanor, for it was apparent he was wrestling with various concerns. I was reluctant to intrude upon his thoughts, but I knew I should say something to him, if only to make it apparent to Mister Kerem that we had his interests at heart. “Do we go to Scotland Yard?” I asked as we emerged on the ground floor.
“I suppose that would be wisest,” said Mycroft Holmes. “They must be the ones dealing with the case.”
His tone told me that he was not eager to do this, and I wondered how much his apprehension about police corruption was coloring his response now. “To whom should we speak?”
“We must learn first to whom the case is assigned. Then we will know.” He shook his head. “You do not think that this murder will command the attention that others might.”
“Why not? A foreign national found horribly killed,” I said. “The yellow press will take to it as happily as to a royal scandal.”
Mycroft Holmes addressed Mister Kerem. “You must pardon my secretary. He has a biased view of the press.”
“I do not,” I protested.
“Mister Guthrie has the odd notion that the press is interested in truth,” said Mycroft Holmes, lifting one eyebrow.
“That is what they claim,” I reminded him. “I have come to doubt that.”
Holmes went on ruthlessly. “He forgets that what is truth to the press is news. It is news that the press seeks, and it is news it trumpets. A case such as your brother’s may strike the press as news, in which case it will be blazoned on every broadsheet from Fleet Street. If it is seen as just another unfortunate killing, they will ignore it.” He paused in the doorway to the carriage. “I want you to prepare yourself for either eventuality. Do not be disappointed in anything you read, Mister Kerem. The press are a capricious lot.”
“On that we agree,” I said with feeling, and stepped through the door into the rainy bluster of the afternoon.
Sid Hastings appeared as if conjured from the steady downpour. “There’s a hot brick for your feet, Mister Kerem,” he said as he
lowered the steps for us; I got in, followed by Mister Kerem.
“Thank you,” said Mycroft Holmes as he climbed into the cab. “We’ll go to Scotland Yard, I think. If you will leave us and call back in an hour, I would be most appreciative. I will need you to be prompt in fetching us. Our duties are not finished. We still have the meeting with Baron von Schattenberg to attend this afternoon.”
“That I will; we’ll get you where you’re going, no fear,” said Hastings as he set Lance in motion. “Oh, sir, I think I should tell you: we are being followed.”
Mister Kerem looked alarmed, but Mycroft Holmes nodded his acceptance. “Tell me as much as you can.”
“There are two of them. On horseback. They picked us up in Pall Mall and I saw them again as I drew up for you now.” Hastings threaded his way into the traffic, glancing back once. “Yes. Still there.”
“Two of them, you say?” Holmes asked.
“On horseback. I can’t make out much more than that.” Hastings sounded apologetic.
“One horse has a loose shoe?” Holmes waited for the answer.
“Sorry, sir. I can’t tell. Too much noise,” said Sid Hastings.
“Well, try to keep a watch on them, if you can do it without being obvious,” said Mycroft Holmes, and sat back out of the rain.
We rode most of the way in silence, as if speaking might somehow put our followers on alert. The jumble of traffic kept Hastings busy, and when he finally let us down, he said to Holmes, “Still there.”
Mycroft Holmes nodded. “We’ll see you in an hour.”
“Right you are,” said Hastings as he went off.
Scotland Yard was a warren of activity through which Mycroft Holmes led us until he reached an enclosed desk and addressed the harried gentleman behind it. “Inspector Wallace,” he said. “Perhaps you could help us?”
The Inspector winced at the sound of Holmes’ voice, and scowled when he turned to see who was addressing him. “Oh, Good God,” he expostulated. “You.”
“I,” Mycroft Holmes agreed.
“What do you want?” Inspector Wallace was suspicious and made no effort to conceal it.
The Scottish Ploy Page 10