Encounters of Sherlock Holmes Page 7

  “As we witnessed tonight...” Hettie commented, her expression grave. “That poor man...”

  “The mania caused by the attacks has reached fever pitch. When an innocent fellow is kicked to death by a mob of blood-thirsty vigilantes just because his face isn’t known in the area...”

  Holmes let his words hang, the memory of the man’s bloody corpse on the corner of Roselyn Road still painfully fresh in our minds. Terrance Rudge had been a passing tradesman, whose only crime had been to cross the path of a drunken group of locals who had taken to patrolling the streets to protect their women folk from the Slasher. He’d paid with his life. Suddenly the events in Seven Sisters had taken a somewhat more sinister turn. Someone had died, not at the hands of a razor-wielding phantom, but a band of scared, paranoid locals.

  “What about the police?” Hettie asked. “Have they any leads?”

  “Unfortunately not. I have conferred with a colleague at Scotland Yard and they simply do not have the manpower to investigate further.”

  “But that’s dreadful,” Hettie exclaimed, appalled at what she was hearing. “People around here are terrified.”

  “Indeed they are, but no lives have been lost—until tonight that is. Trust me Miss Stead, our law enforcers have enough problems without chasing after ghosts and goblins.”

  “So you think that the Slasher is of supernatural origin, then?” I asked, only to be rewarded by another of Holmes’ icy glares.

  “You claim to have read my friend’s accounts, Mr Rayne?”

  “I have, sir.”

  “Then you will be aware that preternatural phenomena has no place in my world.”

  “Of course, ‘The world is big enough for us. No ghosts need apply.’” I stammered, remembering a line from one of the recent editions of The Strand. “Where is Dr Watson, by the way?”

  “Sadly, the good doctor had business of his own to attend to.”

  If Holmes had been kinder to me, then I would have tried to hide my disappointment.

  “That’s a shame. I would have loved to meet the man behind the stories.”

  “You already have,” Holmes retorted, before turning his attention to my friend. “Miss Stead, after you introduced my head to the contents of your handbag you said you would do anything to make amends.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Of course, anything,” Hettie replied.

  “Excellent,” said Holmes, smiling with genuine affection this time. “I would like to make the acquaintance of Mrs Beatrice Kelly.”

  * * *

  At first Beatrice hadn’t been pleased to see us.

  “Our Henry’s paid what he owed,” she’d screamed after finding us standing on her doorstep. “Why can’t you people leave us be?” Then she’d spotted Hettie and her demeanour had instantly changed. The woman beckoned us in to her distinctly murky kitchen and immediately busied herself in boiling the kettle. However, when Hettie revealed the identity of our companion, Mrs Kelly all but dropped the grimy crockery she was gathering from a battered sideboard.

  “Sherlock Holmes,” she shrieked. “In me ’ouse. God ’elp us, what has Henry done now? He’s a good man, Mr Holmes, a good man. He just gets in with the wrong sort, always ’as. Very easily led, my Henry.”

  Holmes amazed me by displaying more charm and diplomacy than I had thought possible during our short acquaintance. He calmed the flustered woman, insisting that he just wanted to ask a few questions about the Slasher. At the very name of the fiend, Beatrice’s lined face became positively electrified. This was a subject that she was more than happy to talk about. After all, as she explained, it had made her “a right royal celebrity around these parts”, although it had been “a terrible ordeal” of course.

  “’Orrible it was, Mr Holmes. ’orrible. Jumped me he did, with no warning. I thought my time had come, so I did.”

  Holmes turned over Beatrice’s dirty woollen jacket in his hands. “And this is where his blade struck home?”

  “Yes, sir. Cut clean through the sleeve, it did.” Beatrice indicated where the fabric had been sliced. “Ruined my best blouse too. ’Ere, I’ll show you.” She produced a garment that could be only generously referred to as “off-white”. If this was Beatrice’s Sunday best, I’d hate to see the rest of her wardrobe.

  “So I see,” Holmes said, taking the blouse from her. “But you escaped being cut yourself.”

  “Oh I felt the blade against my skin sure enough. Cold as ice it was. Left a nasty scratch although it didn’t break the skin, thank God. Me guardian angel must have been watching over me that night, Mr Holmes,” she added with a toothless grin.

  “May I see?”

  “Of course.” Beatrice was already rolling up an equally grubby sleeve. We all peered closer, but could see nothing of note on the woman’s arm. “As I said, it was nothing more than a scratch really. Healed up nicely, it has. I’m one of the lucky ones.”

  “Compared to the Slasher’s other victims, you mean?”

  “I’ve been too scared to leave the house, but Henry’s been bringing the papers ’ome. I can barely bring myself to look at them. Brings it all flooding back it does, especially that ’orrible picture. Gave me a right funny turn that did.”

  “The police sketch, you mean?” asked Hettie.

  Beatrice pushed herself up from the table.

  “No, dear, the one on the front of that dreadful magazine. Where did Henry put it? That man can never leave things where they were.”

  She began shuffling through the detritus of the cramped worktops, huffing and puffing to herself.

  “You mean The Adventure Weekly?” I offered, “The story paper?”

  “That’s the one, love,” Beatrice replied, finally finding the paper under a pile of cloths. “’Ere it is. Yeah, that’s the geezer who tried to do me in, large as life and twice as ugly.”

  She passed the periodical to Holmes, who regarded it with interest.

  “I had no idea the Slasher’s exploits had found their way into the penny dreadfuls,” he commented, flicking through the pages. “A five-part story by Mr Marcus Riggs. Fascinating.”

  “Does Mr Kelly regularly buy The Weekly, Beatrice?” asked Hettie, drawing a cackle from our hostess.

  “Mercy me, dear, no. I didn’t even know he could read.”

  “Where is your husband employed, Mrs Kelly?” Holmes enquired.

  “Works at the glue factory, up Wilcox Street,” came the reply. “Ever since he was a boy.”

  “But he had built up debts in the past.” It was not a question, more a statement of fact. Beatrice visibly stiffened.

  “What makes you ask that?”

  Holmes raised a placating palm.

  “My apologies, madam. I meant no offence. It was just the manner in which you greeted us...”

  “He used to gamble,” Beatrice replied, the warmth instantly extinguished from her voice. “Got ’imself in trouble.”

  “But he’s paid his debts now.”

  “That he has,” she snapped. “Came into some money, although what that’s got to do with the Slasher, I don’t know.”

  “Nothing at all,” Holmes replied, rising to his feet. Apparently he’d decided we were leaving. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  * * *

  “What was all that about,” I asked as we were all but bundled out of the Kelly household.

  “Not here, Mr Rayne,” Holmes warned, striding down the street. “Walls have ears, especially around this neighbourhood.”

  “But you saw something in her story?” interjected Hettie, pulling gloves from her bag. “Something I missed?”

  Holmes didn’t get a chance to answer. As we turned the corner, we found our path blocked by a portly figure — a portly figure I recognised.

  “Terry Anders,” I exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same question, Rayne,” Anders replied, a sly smile spreading across his greasy, corpulent face. “There’s no high-c
lass muck to be raked up around these parts, unless you’ve decided to become a proper journalist.” He turned his unwanted attention on Hettie. “Like the delectable Miss Stead. Many of my colleagues at the Echo still have their doubts about lady reporters such as yourself, but this will show them. Your big scoop.”

  “What scoop are you talking about, Anders?” Hettie all but hissed.

  Anders beamed, finally turning his attention to our companion.

  “The fact that the great Sherlock Holmes is on the trail of the Demon Slasher. Of course, it would have been a scoop if a little bird hadn’t told me what was occurring tonight. Have you time for a quick interview, Mr Holmes?”

  For once, I was glad of Holmes’ brusqueness. He stepped forward, almost barging Alders’ considerable bulk out of the way.

  “No comment,” he shouted over his shoulder, leaving Anders spluttering as we sidestepped the well-padded hack and scurried after the detective.

  * * *

  “The man has no shame,” I said, shoving the next edition of the Echo under Hettie’s nose. “‘Sherlock Holmes Stumped by Seven Sisters Slasher.’ Only Terry Anders could translate ‘No comment’ as, and I quote, ‘the world-renowned detective admitted last night that the case of the Demon Slasher has him beaten. After an evening investigating the strange Tottenham-based attacks, Mr Holmes is as much in the dark as His Majesty’s Police Force.’ It’s rubbish like this that gives journalists a bad name.”

  “While your own work does nothing but reinforce our good reputation.”

  “Yes, very droll.” I folded the copy of the Echo and deposited it into the wastepaper basket where it belonged. “Been taking lessons from Holmes on how to be completely objectionable, have we?”

  The name of the detective brought a dazzling smile to her face.

  “Funny you should mention your friend and mine.”

  She handed me a telegram, the contents of which made my eyebrows raise and my heart sink.

  Miss Stead, it read, I have a story for you. STOP. Please be at 120 Chancery Lane at noon. STOP. Mr Rayne may attend, if he must.

  “If he must?” I repeated, trying to sound as outraged as possible. “Who does he think he is?”

  “Oh, no one in particular,” replied Hettie, kicking away from her seat. ‘Just your common-or-garden genius, I expect.” She grabbed her notebook and, when she noticed the look on my face, stuck out her bottom lip.

  “Oh, don’t worry Georgie, I’ll never leave you for him. I’ve never been one for the older man.” With that she turned on her heel and marched to the coat stand. I glanced at my watch and sighed. It was half past already. Best to get this over with.

  * * *

  “But this is the offices of the—”

  “Adventure Weekly,” Holmes announced as he appeared beside our cab door to help Hettie to the pavement, a smart leather portfolio folder held under his arm. “We have an appointment with Mr Roger Pearson, the publisher.” The detective bowed in greeting. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Miss Stead. I trust that your chatelaine is a great deal lighter this afternoon?”

  I tried not to notice the blush that rose to Hettie’s cheeks as I paid for the cab. This was another detail Watson had failed to publicise. Holmes may have been knocking on fifty, but whatever Hettie said, the old rogue obviously had a way with the ladies.

  You didn’t have to be a consulting detective to see that The Adventure Weekly had obviously seen better days. The office’s spartan furnishings were tired to say the least and the framed front covers that lined the walls had faded with age. Roger Pearson, on the other hand, was younger than I expected, perhaps no more than twenty-five years old, with an eager face, strong jaw and slicked-back hair.

  “Mr Sherlock Holmes,” he enthused, pumping our associate’s hand with vigour. “What an unexpected honour. I have long been an admirer of Dr Watson’s stories.”

  An expression suspiciously like frustration passed across Holmes’ face for a split second. “Yes, so many people are these days. May I introduce Miss Stead and Mr Rayne of The London Examiner?”

  “The Examiner?” Pearson’s smile didn’t falter, although his eyes betrayed a sudden flash of concern. “I don’t understand.”

  “They are writing a story on your paper, Mr Pearson, and I am hoping you will be able to supply them with a few facts.”

  Now it was my turn to look confused. We were?

  “Of course,” Pearson said nervously, indicating for us to take a seat. “We never refuse a spot of publicity.” I found myself standing as Holmes pulled out a chair for Hettie and took the remaining seat himself.

  “Even when it is bad?” Holmes questioned, drawing a frown from the publisher.

  “Again, I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

  You and me both, I thought to myself.

  “If I am correct,” Holmes continued, “your father left the business to you in his will earlier this year.”

  Pearson nodded gravely. “Indeed, Mr Holmes. I am still reeling from the loss.”

  “Not to mention the circulation figures, I’d wager. Is it fair to say that the glory days are behind your once-great publication?”

  If Pearson noticed the sarcasm Holmes ladled onto the question, he didn’t react.

  “I admit that our figures had been dropping, but I wouldn’t write off Adventure Weekly just yet, Mr Holmes. In our heyday we sold a great deal more than Dr Watson’s beloved Strand and I firmly believe—”

  “That you will once again? That’s the spirit.”

  I had a sudden vision of a cat playing with its prey. The glance that I swapped with Hettie told me she was thinking the same. The tension of the room had intensified.

  “Especially with the success of last week’s number,” Holmes said.

  “I had no idea we had such a celebrated devotee,” Pearson said, the skin around his collar starting to flush. “Of course, I would be happy to arrange a complimentary subscription.”

  “Most kind—” Holmes raised a hand from the portfolio in his lap “—but I’m afraid that your run is about to be cut short.” He unzipped the folder and drew out a copy of the story paper. “Sadly, you are never going to print the conclusion of Marcus Riggs’s thrilling series.”

  He threw the paper across Pearson’s desk so it landed in front of the publisher. Pearson’s face now matched his neck.

  “I’m not sure what you are suggesting, Mr Holmes,” the publisher barked, “but if this is some kind of threat...”

  “I paid Mr Riggs a visit earlier today,” Holmes interjected, ignoring Pearson’s rant. “Or at least I tried to. It appears your star writer is currently visiting his sister in Edinburgh. He left for Scotland three weeks ago. According to his landlady he had just delivered his account of the Slasher to you, based on the news reports, obviously. Almost as if he wanted to be out of the way when the first instalment was published.”

  “What of it?” Pearson asked. “A man’s allowed to visit his relatives.”

  “Three weeks ago?” interrupted Hettie, her brow creasing in confusion. “But that’s—”

  “Exceptionally interesting,” Holmes interposed. “Indeed it is, Miss Stead. As is the story Mrs Kelly spun last evening. Her description of the Slasher perfectly matched that found in Mr Riggs’s story. Almost word for word.”

  “As you said,” Pearson replied, “Riggs based his tale on the news reports.”

  “Reports which didn’t appear until a week after he delivered his manuscript,” pointed out Hettie. My eyes widened, even as the colour drained from Pearson’s face.

  “I believe,” Holmes began, his voice rising to a crescendo, “that the reason the police haven’t been able to find the Slasher—”

  “Is that he doesn’t exist,” Hettie concluded, her pen frozen above her pad. “It was all a publicity stunt for the Weekly.”

  “Hang on,” I said, tired of being a spectator. “Are you really suggesting Pearson hired someone to dress up as the Slasher and attack those people?”<
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  “I did no such thing!” exploded Pearson, beads of sweat forming on his brow.

  “There was no need,” agreed Holmes, “not when you could merely pay people to say they’d been attacked.”

  “It was all a hoax?” I asked, confounded. Hettie at least had recovered her composure and was scribbling away on her pad.

  “Seven Sisters is not an affluent neighbourhood. It must have been simplicity itself to find a number of people willing to claim they had been attacked. Much like Mr Kelly. Paying off the man’s gambling debts was a small price to pay for the continued propagation of the Slasher stories. And you have to admire dear Mrs Kelly. Cutting through her own clothes with knife to simulate the attack. Of course, a close examination soon revealed that the damage wasn’t caused by a razor-sharp blade. The fibres of her best jacket were virtually hacked apart. A razor’s cut would be clean and straight. Then there was her blouse. It’s hard to believe a blade could work its way through such a thick woollen sleeve, shredding a blouse in the process, and not break the skin. There was no sign of blood, despite the fact the garment obviously hadn’t been laundered for quite some time.”

  “This is preposterous,” Pearson spluttered, eyes flashing with a combination of fury and unmistakable alarm. “People have been injured, Mr Holmes. The attacks were real.”

  “The injuries were real. When folk are living in abject poverty it is staggering what they will do to earn a few bob.”

  “Even drag a razor over their own chest?” I asked, not wanting it to be true. “Or kick a man to death in the streets?”

  “I had nothing to do with that,” Pearson blurted out, getting to his feet, chair legs squealing across the floor. “I never even met those men.”

  “And I suspect there were other ‘victims’ you have never met. The poor souls so hungry for attention that they would turn a knife on themselves to grab their moment in the spotlight. The drunken louts who thought they were protecting their neighbourhood when they turned on an innocent stranger.