by David Marcum
A short time later, Holmes’s let himself into a quiet building on Montague Street. He ran quickly up the stairs, but before he reached the landing, a shrill voice called him to a halt.
“We’ve discussed this, Mr. Holmes,” she said.
He turned, tried a smile meant to be charming, but failed. She stood with her arms folded, her face pursed like a sulky child. “I do apologise, Mrs. Prescott,” he said, “But it was unavoidable.”
“My tenants do not care to be disturbed, Mr. Holmes. They need peace and quiet. Not much to ask, surely?”
“No, indeed. I assure you I made every effort to be quiet when I left.”
“But the messenger, Mr. Holmes. Waking me from my sound sleep at a ridiculous hour.”
He turned again, tried to escape, but she was not done. “A little consideration, Mr. Holmes. This is your final warning. If you cannot abide by the rules of the house, you may find yourself other accommodation. Good day to you, sir.”
He glimpsed her friend Mrs. Hudson sitting in the parlour. She shook her head sympathetically. He had once solved a little problem for her, the curious matter of a bonnet’s ribbons changing colour, and she had been his ally ever since. He suspected Mrs. Prescott would have evicted him months ago were it not for Mrs. Hudson.
Living in Montague Street was convenient, at least in terms of the location. He could walk to the British Museum in a matter of minutes. He enjoyed the quiet of the building and the area. Then again, the quiet had become an issue of late. Two of his neighbours, Mr. Barraclough upstairs and Mr. Desmond across the hall, both of them academics, had started to complain whenever he received visitors. This was nothing to their outrage whenever he had a caller after nine o’clock at night. He had begun a desultory search for alternative accommodation, but thus far found nothing suitable.
As he washed and changed, Holmes fretted. He disliked domestic distractions. He should be focusing on his new case, a delicious new case with so many possibilities. Not worrying about his fussy landlady.
He took a cab back to the Westminster Bridge Road and alighted at Number 121. The three-story red-bricked building was home to the Necropolis Railway. In ‘54, London seemed on the verge of running out of burial space. It was decided to open a new cemetery in Brookwood, Surrey. Of course, the distance presented a problem for mourners, and so the Necropolis Railway was established. They transported around fifty bodies a day for burial or cremation.
From Holmes’s description, a guardsman identified the dead man as Dutch Winkle. “You’re telling me he’s dead? Ah, poor Dutch. What happened?”
“His body was found under the railway bridge.”
“The railway bridge? What was he doing there?”
“I was hoping you might know.”
“Not I, sir. Dutch would have gone the other way if he were going home.”
“Home was where?”
“Coral Street.”
“The opposite direction, I see. Was he working last night?”
“Reckon he must have been, if he were found up t’road.”
“You do not know?”
“Not I. You could ask Mr. Larkman. He’s the company secretary.”
The fellow directed Holmes. The detective’s footsteps clanged on the wrought iron stairs as he made his way up to the third floor.
Larkman heard Holmes’s news with dismay. “Mr. Winkle is dead? Well, that is a blow, a grievous blow indeed. A fine, upstanding gentleman, very good with the mourners.”
“What was his position?”
“He was our supervising manager. He served as a mourners’ attendant. He greeted them, made sure they were comfortable for the journey, saw the coffins were properly placed. You don’t want coffins, especially the cheaper ones, to fall over in the middle of a journey. Very nasty. Then, when the train reaches Brookwood Cemetery, he takes – took, I should say – the mourners to the chapel.
“Although it was not his domain, he did keep an eye on the waiting rooms. We have eight for the first-class mourners, alone.”
“Excuse me? Do you mean to say you segregate the classes . . . for a funeral?”
“Certainly. Though I should say the facilities for the second- and third-class mourners are excellent, too. We also keep the various religious denominations and the, ahem, non-believers separate. The niceties must be observed. In many respects, Mr. Winkle was the face of our company. I do not know how we shall replace him.
“He made sure that the bodies were correctly identified, that the paperwork was in order, and he oversaw the day-to-day management of affairs. He was with us twenty-six years, ever since the company opened. Was it his heart? He hadn’t been feeling well since Christmas. I suggested he see a doctor, and he promised he would do so on Tuesday when he had a day off.”
“His body was found under the Westminster Railway Bridge in the early hours of the morning. Did he work last night?”
“Perhaps, if one of the hotels had a death. Let me check the ledger.” He took down a large book and flicked through the pages.
“Hotels?” Holmes asked.
“Oh yes, indeed. If a guest should die in a hotel and the landlord wants to avoid a scandal, we are notified and collect the body in the middle of the night, with no one the wiser.”
Holmes had a sudden, horrifying image of murdered bodies being spirited away by the Necropolis Railway in the dead of night.
“You mean, you just go and pick up a corpse, no questions asked?” he said.
Mr Larkman blinked. “What? Oh, no, there must be a death certificate. We are most fastidious about the details, Mr Holmes.
“Mr. Winkle was our primary liaison with the hotels. If he were called out, he would have made note. Ah, yes, you see here. A call to the Lampton Inn on the Caledonian Road at one a.m.”
“How would the hotel have contacted him? Telegram?”
“Telegram if the hotel were some distance away. Otherwise, they’d dispatch a messenger. Some of the hotels worked directly with Mr. Winkle. They knew him, you see, could rely upon his discretion. He’d have received the message at home and come here to collect a hearse.”
“He would not have collected a body on his own, I suppose?”
“To be frank, I am not certain how Mr. Winkle would have proceeded. He was very much his own man, you see. Very likely he would have collected one of his colleagues along the way, probably Mr. Graves. He is on duty, if you would like to speak to him?”
Mr. Graves was a heavy-set man, burly and tattooed. Even without the anchor on his left forearm, Holmes could tell he was a former sailor by his gait. The scars on his hands told of time aboard a whaler.
“Last night?” he said in a heavy Cornish accent. “No, I never heard from him. Poor old Winkle. I’m sorry to hear he’s gone. Good man, he was.”
“What was his routine when he needed to attend a body from a hotel?” Holmes asked.
Graves released a long puff of air as he thought. “Well, it varied. Some of the hotels were fussy about how they wanted things handled. Mr. Winkle knew all their little peculiarities and accommodated them as much as possible. I’m surprised he didn’t ask me to help him.”
“I’m puzzled,” Mr. Larkman said, “Surely he would not have moved a body on his own?”
“Depends on the sort of message he got,” Graves replied. “Sometimes the situation is still unfolding, if you get my drift. There are hysterical family members or ladies who are not the gentleman’s wife . . . Mr. Winkle may have thought it best to go appraise the situation and then see what help he might need, if any. Which hotel was he called to? Oh, that explains it. They’re not much use in the Lampton. Called us out one time ‘cos they reckoned a patron was dead, ‘cept he were only dead drunk. Oh, did he holler when we tried to put him into the coffin! Mr. Winkle was very cautious from that point on. I reckon he’d have gone to get the lay of the land, so to speak. If there were a body and it weren’t too big, Mr. Winkle would have had one of the hotel staff help him. He didn’t like calling me ou
t in the middle of the night if he could help it. Thoughtful like that, he was. Very kind gentleman.”
“Presumably, if the hotel staff could not help for some reason, Mr. Winkle would have sent for you then?”
“Oh, aye, without question.”
“I assume he would have taken a hearse with him?”
“Yes, we have one just for the purpose,” Larkman said. “It’s small, discreet.”
“May I see it?”
Larkman led Holmes to an area below the station level. He tutted. “That’s very odd,” he said. “It isn’t here. Mr. Graves? Mr. Graves, has someone taken the hotel hearse out?”
“Not this morning, Mr. Larkman. Is it missing?”
They searched, but the hearse was nowhere to be found.
By the time Holmes left the railway station, it was after eleven and mourners were beginning to arrive. What a curious business it all was.
He decided to walk to Caledonian Road, rather than take a cab. It would give him time to think. He tried to focus on the case but his mind kept returning to the problem of his flat. He really needed to find somewhere new to live, somewhere less restrictive. Unfortunately, accommodation in London was expensive. Perhaps he could find someone to share?
Stop that nonsense. Focus on the case.
What did he know? In the middle of the night, a man is called to transport a corpse from Caledonian Road to the Necropolis Railway in Waterloo. According to the log, he received the message at one o’clock. He was found covered in someone’s blood a little before three a.m.
The sky hung low with black clouds and he picked up his pace. He reached the inn on the corner of Frederica Street just before the deluge began.
“Bad day,” he said as he entered.
The landlord nodded. “Bad for business, that’s for sure. What can I get you?”
“A pint of your best, and whatever you’re having yourself.”
The lounge was empty apart from themselves. Holmes chinked his glass to the landlord’s and said, “Your very good health.”
“And yours, too, sir.”
Holmes nodded towards the downpour outside and said, “People will be dropping like flies. Bad weather is always a boon for the funeral trade.”
“It’s an ill wind,” the landlord agreed. “Not so good for my business though.”
“No?”
“People don’t like to come out when it’s rough. We get our regulars, of course, but it’s people visiting the prison that make up most of my customers.”
“Do many of them stay in your rooms?”
“It comes and goes,” the landlord said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He missed the froth on the corner of his lip and it looked curiously as if he were blowing bubbles. “Ain’t had no one in nearly two weeks. Don’t suppose you’re looking for a bed yourself, sir?”
“I might be looking to move out of my flat in a few weeks. Don’t suppose I could look at the rooms?”
“Course you can.”
The landlord poked his head out the door and, satisfied there were no customers on the way, locked it, and led Holmes up a tight and twisting staircase. The detective had a moment’s sympathy for Mr. Winkle. Getting a coffin down these stairs would be no joke.
“How many rooms do you have here, Mr . . . ?”
“Cubby, sir. Victor Cubby at your service.” The landlord paused and looked back at Holmes. There wasn’t enough room to shake hands. He turned back and continued the steep climb. “We have four. They’re small, but they’re clean enough. My missus keeps them all spic and span. She’s a good cook, too, and can see to all your meals, if you might be wanting summat.”
“That’s good to know,” Holmes said. “Does she help you run things?”
“She keeps an eye. Mind you, she’s been distracted. My old mum is proper poorly. The missus is very fond of her. That’s where she is now. We’re taking turns looking after mum. Not got long left, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Between doing a full turn here and then running up to Finsbury Park to take care of her, we’re both wore out. It’s probably as well that we haven’t had any guests for a while. Here we are. This is the best room we have.”
He swung open the door and stepped inside. Holmes, behind him and three steps down, heard the landlord cry out. He himself stepped into the room and saw the reason for the man’s alarm. Blood covered the bed, the walls, and even part of the ceiling.
Long splashes of dried blood streaked across the floorboards from an upturned trunk at the foot of the bed. There. That’s where Dutch Winkle fell. Sherlock Holmes could see it almost as if the scene unfolded before his eyes.
The landlord stared at the spattered room. Holmes noticed the man’s pallor and the sweat on his brow with alarm.
“Mr. Cubby,” he said, “I think you should send for the police. Send word to Scotland Yard and ask for Inspector Lestrade to come here.”
The man stared at Holmes for several seconds without apparent comprehension. Then he seemed to rouse himself and said, “Lestrade? Yes, very well. I’ll be right back.”
“No rush, Mr. Cubby. You might want to have a drink. You’re very pale.”
“A drink? Yes, yes, a drink is a good idea.”
“But first send for the police.”
A moment later, Holmes had the room to himself. He rubbed his hands together in satisfaction and got to work.
He estimated the room was about eight foot square. The chest of drawers stood at the left, the small bed at the right. Between the two, a narrow window overlooked the street.
He followed the clear evidence of the footprints. Three men in this cramped space: The late Dutch Winkle, the killer, and the victim. One man had lain upon the bed. The outline of his body remained intact. Holmes’s sniffed the bluish stain on the pillow and smiled.
Most of the blood spatter covered the wall slightly to the right of the door. Holmes surveyed the scene and reconstructed the events in his mind. Yes, he thought. That scenario made sense.
By the time Cubby returned, Holmes was back in the lounge warming himself by the fire. Outside the rain continued to pour down.
The landlord shivered and dripped onto the floor. “I sent word,” he chattered. “I hope we won’t have to wait too long. I feel proper sick after seeing all that blood.”
“Sit down, Mr. Cubby. You are very pale.”
“Be so kind as to pour me a brandy would you, sir? I’m afraid my nerves are all to pieces.”
Holmes obliged and handed the landlord a stiff measure. He said, “You were not here when this happened?”
“No, me and the missus were with mum last night. The room was spick and span when we left. I only got back an hour ago.”
“Who was in charge while you were away?”
“My brother, Albert.”
“And he reported nothing untoward this morning?”
“He wasn’t here.” The landlord’s face darkened. “Unreliable little beggar. Can’t never trust him with nothing. Every time I leave him alone here, there’s some bother.”
“Has he ever been in any trouble?” Holmes asked.
“Only since he was born. In and out of prison since he was just a nipper. Broke mum’s heart, so it did.” He looked up at Holmes with a regretful expression. “It’s not that he’s a bad lad, just easily led. He’s none too bright, and people take advantage.”
“I understand. He’s been in Pentonville?”
“Released just a week ago . . . You don’t think he’s killed someone? On my word, sir, he’s no killer.”
“No,” Holmes said, gently. “Not a killer.”
The landlord’s eyes filled with tears and spilled down his cold wet cheeks. “You reckon it’s his blood, then?”
“I’m afraid it does seem likely.”
Cubby downed the brandy in one gulp. Then he said, “Where is he, then?”
Where indeed.
As they waited for Lestrade, Holmes asked about t
he inn’s dealings with the Necropolis Railway. “I’ve only had to call them once, that was back in ‘79. Man killed himself in the little back room. Hanging. God, that was awful. We had police, doctors. Tried to keep it quiet – it’s bad for business if people hear. Especially a suicide. Sent word to the Necropolis Railway and they took care of everything in the middle of the night, nice and quiet.”
“That’s the only time you’ve dealt with them?”
“Me, yes. Albert called them another time, only he didn’t know the routine. Found this fellow out cold and just figured he was dead. Never thought to call a doctor – we have to have a certificate, you see. Anyway, it turned out the geezer was just dead drunk. Albert thought that was a fine joke. Told the story to anyone who’d listen. Can’t say the undertaker was best pleased, though, and we were charged, even though they hadn’t made a pick-up.”
“Was your brother acquainted with a man called Hieronymus Pennyfeather?”
“The actor, you mean? Yes, Mr. Pennyfeather often stayed here. Perfect gentleman. I never saw any of the deviance they accused him of. Those women must have made a mistake, or else they lied.”
“His last victim was lucky to escape with her life. I’m surprised he wasn’t hanged, though I suppose life in Pentonville is a sort of living death.”
Twenty minutes later a wet, tired, and cranky Lestrade arrived. He scowled at Holmes but kept his temper in check.
“Thank you for coming so promptly, Inspector,” Holmes’s said genially. “With Mr. Cubby’s permission, I shall take you up to the room.”
“Go,” Cubby said. “I never want to set foot in the place again. Oh God, all that blood . . . .”
Lestrade followed Holmes up the rickety staircase and stepped into the room.
“Good heavens,” he said.
His mouth seemed undecided what to do with itself. It made several grimaces, purses, and pouts. At last, he took a breath, forced his mouth to behave, and said, “Well, Mr. Holmes, I take it you believe this is connected with that Westminster Railway Bridge case.”
“Indeed, so, Inspector. More to the point, I believe this shall lead you to the apprehension of your escaped convict, Hieronymus Pennyfeather.”