Sherlock Holmes Page 6

  “What of Carter?” I said. “We can’t just leave him here. Who’s going to speak to his mother?”

  “I will remain here and see to the necessary arrangements, Dr. Watson,” said Foulkes. “Rest assured, I won’t leave until the boy has been extracted from the wreckage and taken to the morgue. I will see to it that the family is informed.”

  “Very well,” I said, with a heavy sigh. I could see there was no point arguing, and in truth, my every instinct screamed at me to get as far away from the place as possible.

  “Thank you, Inspector,” said Holmes. “We shall be in touch.”

  “See that you are, Mr. Holmes,” said Foulkes.

  “You’re a good man, Inspector Foulkes,” I said. “Bainbridge would be proud.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Watson. Now go, before that lot rope you in to start answering questions.”

  I nodded, and with one last look at the terrible, charred remains of our driver, I turned and walked away, leaving Holmes behind me to catch up.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I came downstairs the next morning to find Holmes sitting in my favourite armchair, poring over the documents we had taken from the War Office the previous day. They were scattered all about him on the floor, many of them covered in pencil marks and scrawled notes. The fire was burning in the grate, despite the clement weather outside. Three teacups were abandoned on the hearth, beside the remains of my crumpets from the previous day. I grimaced at the sight of them.

  Holmes glanced up momentarily as I came into the room. “Morning, Watson,” he pronounced. He returned to his reading without waiting for my acknowledgement.

  “Haven’t you slept, Holmes?” I asked.

  “A little,” he replied.

  “Really, Holmes. At our age…”

  I saw him grind his teeth, measuring his response. “Old habits die hard, Watson. Particularly when there’s a case to be solved. You know my methods.”

  “Mmmm,” I murmured disapprovingly in reply. In truth, I had not slept well myself. Images of the burnt-out motorcar and the remains of that poor young man had haunted me every time I closed my eyes. I was plagued by the look of sheer, unadulterated terror on his face.

  I felt as if I should have done something. I should have considered him, alone out there in the street, instead of cowering inside the building, thinking only of myself. Perhaps if Holmes and I had got to him earlier… He couldn’t have been more than – what – twenty years old? It was no age to die. Yet, I reflected, his story was no different to the thousands whose lives were being forfeited in the trenches every day. Just like my nephew, Joseph. The war itself was the real culprit here. We had invited death into our lives, and now it was wreaking chaos.

  The journey home from Grange’s house had proved increasingly harrowing, following the trail of destruction left behind by the Kaiser’s zeppelins, not to mention the ever-present threat of more incendiary devices tumbling from the skies above. It was a simple matter to map the route of the bombers across the city, following the guttering fires, the crumbling buildings, and the screams. Black smoke had formed a pall across the rooftops, and the stench of death hung heavy in the air.

  I had tried to help, offering my medical services to the fire crews who had scrambled to attend to the bombsites, but there was little I could do. Those who had been caught in the blasts were already dead, and I was grateful to discover that many had escaped with their lives, if not their possessions. They would be moved on to shelters elsewhere in the city, distraught but grateful for their lives.

  With little else to be done, Holmes and I had struck out towards Ealing on foot, and had been forced to walk some miles before finally picking up a cab.

  As a consequence I was bone tired, and felt a dark shadow of depression threatening to overwhelm me. Left to my own devices, I was sure that I might sink into a well of grief and self-pity, and the very notion appalled me, bucking me up. I made a conscious decision to banish such black thoughts. There was a case to be solved. There was work to be done.

  Holmes was still intent on the papers upon his knee. “Have you discovered anything?” I asked, as I collected the detritus from the fireplace.

  Holmes sniffed. He shook his head. “Nothing of consequence,” he replied. “At least, not yet. I need those other transcripts. There is a pattern here, I’m sure of it. It’s simply that I cannot yet discern it. The picture remains incomplete. Additionally, without my index the work is much more difficult. Many of these names are familiar to me; minor criminals, petty thieves, that sort of thing, but I fear I’m going to have to rely on Inspector Foulkes to confirm it.”

  I could see his frustration in the set of his jaw. He must have been at it for hours. There were dark bruises beneath his eyes from lack of sleep. “Coffee,” I said. “And breakfast.” It occurred to me that neither of us had eaten since before we’d met at Victoria Station.

  Holmes waved a dismissive hand, without looking up.

  “Now then, Holmes, I’ll have none of that. I’m speaking now as your doctor, as well as your friend. It’s time to eat.” I waited for a moment, but there was no response. So, grabbing the bull by the horns, I headed to the kitchen, where I rolled back my shirtsleeves and set about preparing a hearty spread of grilled kidneys and bacon, with a side of buttered toast. Years of experience told me that, despite his protests to the contrary, Holmes would soon attack this food if it were placed before him.

  I was not wrong, and within half an hour we were both sitting at the breakfast table lining our stomachs in preparation for the day ahead. My culinary skills leave a lot to be desired, but my simple offering seemed to suffice.

  “As I see it, Holmes,” I said, around a mouthful of bacon, “we have two potential lines of enquiry. The transcripts from the War Office, on which you’re already engaged, and those eerie photographs we recovered from Grange’s home last night.” I paused while I gulped down a welcome mouthful of coffee. “Have you any notion what they might be, what they might represent?” I’d intended to ask him this on the way home the previous evening, but events had somewhat disrupted my plans.

  “I fear not, Watson,” he replied, in what I took to be a rare moment of modesty. “It is clear to me that these unusual prints bear some manner of relationship to the field of spiritualism and the occult, but I am not yet convinced of their exact purpose. It is most likely they represent a form of elaborate hoax, a way of extracting money from a vulnerable or gullible man.”

  “I’d wondered much the same,” I said, for although I was perhaps more disposed to matters of the spiritual than Holmes – who was at heart a cold, clinical logician, prepared only to accept the empirical evidence of his eyes – I had found myself assuming the photographs to be the result of a parlour game or an artistic experiment, rather than a true likeness of anything from the spiritual realm.

  “The problem,” said Holmes, “is that all evidence suggests that Herbert Grange was neither vulnerable nor gullible.” He underlined his point by stabbing fiercely at a piece of kidney, which he proceeded to chew on thoughtfully while staring into the middle distance.

  “Nevertheless,” I said, following this train of thought, “surely if someone was attempting to extort money from Grange it represents a potential motive for his suicide. Blackmail, I mean. Perhaps they had a hold over him, something we have yet to discern. Or perhaps he did actually believe whatever spiritualist nonsense they were peddling. We can’t ignore it.”

  “Quite so, Watson,” replied Holmes. “Quite so.”

  “The pertinent question is surely, then: who is behind them?” I placed my cutlery on the empty plate before me and pushed it away across the table. “Who is the man or woman behind the camera? The difficulty is in getting to the bottom of that.”

  “We both know a man with the knowledge to be able to assist us in this matter,” said Holmes, “or at the very least, to aid us in identifying the purpose of the photographs, if not, perhaps, their origin.”

  “We do?” I repli
ed, momentarily perplexed.

  Holmes’s thin lips formed a forced smile, as if the idea was, perhaps, a little unsavoury. “Consider,” he said, “Horburton Fen.”

  “Ah!” I exclaimed. “Of course. Sir Maurice Newbury. He’s exactly the man we need.” Newbury was an old acquaintance, an agent of the Crown and an expert in all matters pertaining to the occult. I had worked with him on a number of occasions – including the aforementioned affair at Horburton Fen, investigating a series of ritual murders and a satanic coven of witches – and found him to be a most excellent, reliable fellow. I understood that Holmes, however, would likely feel differently about the situation. He had never put much stock in talk of the supernatural, and I didn’t imagine he was about to start now. Nevertheless, as Holmes well knew, it wasn’t so much a question of whether either of us believed in whatever hokum was behind the photographs, but whether Grange himself did. Holmes’s hope was that Newbury might be able to help us understand the context of the photographs, no more.

  Whatever the case, I found the notion of catching up with Newbury after all this time most appealing, and I said so to Holmes.

  He responded by withdrawing his cracked old briar pipe from his coat pocket and stuffing it full of shag.

  I had visited Newbury’s home once before, during the adventure I have previously chronicled as “The Case of the Night Crawler”, and so, after fishing out my address book, I was able to search out the location of his Chelsea home for the telephone operator.

  A quick call established he was not at home, but his valet – who, despite it being over ten years since I’d visited, appeared to remember me when I gave my name – helpfully informed me that Newbury was to be found at his office in the British Museum. I recalled then that Newbury maintained a post at that august establishment, for the times when he was not actively pursuing an investigation for the Crown. A further telephone call to his secretary there confirmed an appointment for later that morning.

  While I tidied away the remnants of our breakfast, Holmes also made use of the telephone to call his brother Mycroft, with the express purpose of informing him of the sad death of his driver the previous evening. Their call was brief and somewhat stilted, although I made a point of not overhearing the content of their conversation.

  When he was finished, Holmes came to find me the kitchen. He was already wearing his coat and gloves, and was holding a manila folder containing Grange’s photographs. “To the British Museum, then?” he said.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” I replied. “It’ll be good to see Newbury again after all this time.”

  Holmes offered me an enigmatic smile in response.

  * * *

  I have always been fond of the British Museum. I believe it symbolises the cultural wealth of our nation – indeed, of our empire. It represents perhaps the greatest collection of historical artefacts in the world. I would often enjoy whiling away afternoons there with my wife, touring the exhibits and soaking up the atmosphere of ancient lands.

  On occasion I have wondered whether, if Holmes had not given himself entirely to his chosen profession of consulting detective, perhaps he might have made an exemplary historian. Not that he showed a particular interest in such matters, I hasten to add – indeed, it was fair to say that he was quite ignorant of much of what is generally considered historical fact. Unless, that was, those facts happened to pertain to a particular criminal investigation. Ask him to name the successive kings and queens of England, for example, and he would be quite flummoxed.

  No, it was more that I understood the pursuit of historical data to be a series of puzzles to be solved, of mysteries to be unravelled. I was certain that if Holmes had chosen to put his mind to it, he might have caused quite a stir in the field. Knowing him as I did, however, I understood that he would find such work meaningless, and that the lack of empirical evidence and reliance on supposition would drive him to distraction.

  Newbury, of course, had a deep affinity for such matters, and although I’d never been certain whether it was simply a cover for his more practical work for the Crown, or a genuine attempt to establish an academic career, his interest in the field seemed most genuine. Where Holmes would dedicate his time to producing a monograph on the identification of tobacco ash and its application in criminal investigation, Newbury was more likely to be concerned with Neolithic stone circles and their use in ancient fertility rites. In this, they could not be further apart.

  I admit to feeling a certain amount of anticipation at seeing Newbury again. This was partly because I looked forward to rekindling an occasional acquaintance I had much enjoyed during the last decade and a half, and partly because I was interested to see how Holmes would acquit himself. He had originally been critical of my association with Sir Maurice and his assistant, Miss Veronica Hobbes, writing Newbury off as a credulous charlatan who put too much stock in the affairs of the supernatural. Indeed, during the aforementioned investigation into the mysterious machine that later became known as the “night crawler”, Holmes had entirely refused to engage with the man, leaving it to me to act as a go-between.

  Years later, however, we once again crossed paths with Newbury during the episode I have laid out as “The Witch of Horburton Fen”, and this time, in coming face-to-face with a man I believe Holmes once considered a rival, his earlier scorn had given way to a begrudging respect. Newbury had been fundamental in the successful wrapping up of the case, aiding Holmes in bringing an errant vicar to justice. Then, as I suspected Holmes imagined now, the supernatural elements of the case had proved to be quite the opposite, with a perfectly rational – if somewhat distressing – explanation. What was more, at no point during the investigation did Newbury fall back on any ungrounded beliefs, or preach to us the likelihood of a supernatural cause. He approached the matter in much the same way as Holmes, examining each and every clue, deciphering its meaning, and refusing to make suppositions until all the data was in place. This, I knew, had impressed Holmes immeasurably, and as such his overall attitude towards Newbury had softened, to the extent that now, unexpectedly, he was counselling a visit to seek the man’s advice. Wonders, I decided, would never cease.

  Holmes had remained silent throughout our journey, but now, as our cab came to a stop before the main gates of the British Museum, he turned to me, his expression warm but serious. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said quietly.

  Caught off guard, I mumbled an acknowledgement, fighting back an upwelling of unseemly emotion. He nodded once, and then turned and climbed out of the conveyance. I followed suit, but as I did, I noticed that my hands were trembling. It was, I realised, one of the kindest gestures that Holmes had ever made, in all of our years as friends. I swallowed and reached for some change to pay the driver.

  The museum grounds were quiet, with only a handful of people milling around the courtyard. It wasn’t surprising, given the events of the evening before. With so much clearing up to do, and the lingering threat of death at the hands of the zeppelin bombers, the last thing that people wanted to do was lose themselves in the artistic endeavours of the past. The present was simply too pressing.

  We crossed the forecourt in the shadow of the monolithic building, and I found myself thinking how grateful I was that the edifice had so far avoided becoming a target of the enemy bombs.

  At the top of the steps, close to the main entrance, I stopped to speak with a doorman. He looked rather harried, as if he had somewhere better to be. “We have an appointment with Sir Maurice Newbury,” I said. “I wonder if you could point us in the right direction?”

  “Across the main lobby,” he said, “and then follow the courtyard around to the right. You’ll come across a flight of steps. Can’t miss it. Sir Maurice keeps an office in the basement.”

  “My thanks to you,” I said.

  Newbury’s office was along a dimly lit corridor at the bottom of the stairs. At first I thought the doorman has given us the wrong directions; we seemed to be down in the bowels of the museum, a
mongst the dusty storerooms and disused offices. There were numerous doors stemming off the corridor, each of them with opaque glass, but lacking nameplates. We checked them one by one as we traversed the length of the corridor. Holmes was the first to spot it, the final door, about as far from the museum proper as you could get. Here, a small brass plaque was etched with a legend: “Sir Maurice Newbury”.

  Holmes rapped on the door, and then opened it without waiting for a response. He strode in, all sense of proper decorum ignored.

  Shaking my head, I followed after him.

  Inside, the office was not at all what I’d been expecting. Instead of a musty old room full of long-abandoned files and papers, there was a rather homely space containing a fireplace, stove, bookcase, filing cabinet and desk. The walls were adorned with an array of ancient weapons, including a mace, a rather deadly looking morning star, an elaborately engraved shield and a primitive axe, the head bound to the shaft with what looked like twine. On the left was a door to an antechamber, presently closed. There was no sign of the secretary I had spoken to that morning.

  “Hello?” said Holmes.

  There came the disharmonious sound of chair legs scraping across tiles from the antechamber, and through the glass partition I saw the silhouette of a man getting up from behind a desk. Moments later the door opened, and Newbury stood in the opening, a broad grin on his face. “Dr. Watson!” he said, with what sounded like genuine pleasure. “It’s good to see you after all this time.” He came forward, proffering his hand. I took it and he clasped mine firmly. He had aged well: his hair was still the same raven black as it had been almost ten years earlier, with only a peppering of grey; the lines on his face looked distinguished rather than careworn, and he was still lean. He must have been in his early fifties. I guessed he still continued in active service. “And you, Mr. Holmes,” he continued, releasing my hand and turning to Holmes. “You are most welcome.”