Sherlock Holmes 01: The Breath of God (4 page)

He proceeded to describe the details of De Montfort’s last hours, while I made notes and Holmes listened intently.

“Bizarre indeed,” Holmes agreed, “and the second inexplicable thing I have heard today.” He offered me a quick smile. “But then, as Watson will insist on telling his readers, explaining the inexplicable has become something of a theme. I don’t suppose we might be allowed to see the body?”

Gregson scratched at his moustache. “Highly irregular of course, but I can’t see there’s anyone who’d object, seeing as it’s you.”

“Excellent!” Holmes declared.

I was only to glad to leave Scotland Yard. To me, with its raucous mixture of criminals being processed and officers trying to keep the peace, it has always felt like a factory floor. A foundry for crime perhaps. For certainly, only the most naïve of citizens could look on the long rows of unfortunates queued before the duty officer or scuffling together in the holding cells and think they were looking at the rehabilitated. For many of London’s criminals, the time spent in the police stations and gaols of the capital were simply brief respites on the long road of their criminal career.

Holmes, Gregson and I made the short journey to the Metropolitan Morgue, a dismal edifice of soot-stained brick and dirty tile. Like many of the city’s poorer hospitals, the stench when one crossed the threshold was of disinfectant combined with old blood and rotting flesh, the living attempting to eradicate the dead. While I had no doubt that the morgue officers made every effort to keep a clean laboratory, there was only so much you could do when your drawers were forever filling with the cadavers of yet more unfortunates. There were the bloated bodies of those fished from the Thames, and the half-rotted (and often half-eaten) remains of those dumped in the darker corners of our city or the tunnels underneath it. When I am in one of my darker moods – what Holmes would describe as a “brown study” – I often think we live in a city built on the bones of the dead.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” Cuthbert Wells said, a police surgeon of our acquaintance, “what brings you back amongst the ranks of the brutally deceased?”

“We wish to examine what remains of Hilary De Montfort,” Holmes responded.

“Then you are only just in time,” Wells replied, “his family are impatient to claim him for their own.” He smiled. “There is snobbery even beyond the mortal coil,” he explained, “and they do not like the company their son has fallen into.”

Holmes glanced around at the cold halls. “I am not sure I blame them.”

“Come now, Holmes,” laughed Wells, “you have dabbled in less salubrious quarters, I’m sure.”

“If we could see the body, then?” Gregson interrupted, impatient to be at the business in hand.

“But of course, gentlemen,” Wells replied. “Follow me.”

He led us through to one of the small dissecting rooms. The body of young De Montfort was laid out on the slab beneath its heavy sheet.

Holmes whipped the cloth back so as to fully appreciate the state of the corpse beneath. Even my famously cool friend couldn’t quite hide his surprise at how battered the body was, drawing a quick breath between clenched teeth.

“The poor fellow is in a bad way. Watson, your opinion?”

I took his place at the dead body’s side and, as was always the way once about the business of my profession, all emotional response to the man before me vanished, to be replaced by the cold, automatic response of the pathologist. I like to think that I am not a man who is without a sense of empathy – indeed according to Holmes it is something I possess to the point of distraction – but once reduced to a biological puzzle on the mortician’s table, a body becomes just that. You are a thing of ligature marks and contusions, a book to be read from. I have never caught a glimpse of the human soul in an empty cadaver.

“If I didn’t know better,” I said, “I would suggest he died from a considerable fall. The last time I saw such wounds was when my wife and I went hiking in Wales.” I looked up towards my fellows. “Something of a marred holiday as Mary and I stumbled on a young man who had fallen from the Blorenge.”

“We wondered if he was the victim of several assailants,” commented Gregson, “if a handful of men gave him a sound kicking...”

“...Then the wounds would have been quite different,” explained Wells. “The majority of the damage is caused by one, relatively even, blow.”

“Such as one would expect had a man fallen from a great height,” I agreed, “or perhaps had something dropped upon him.”

“Then you would expect a more even crushing of the bones,” Wells said, “whereas the damage here is shallow yet dramatic.” He clapped his hands together. “The bones are shattered, the bruising prodigious.”

“Which doesn’t make any sense,” Gregson said.

“The inexplicable it is then,” Holmes said.

We left the mortuary bound for Grosvenor Square. Holmes gazing out of the cab window and refusing to enter into our discussions as we moved through the city streets. He had thoughts of his own and had never been one to suppress them for the sake of public chat.

“I fear this is going to be a mystery that remains so,” Gregson said. “An investigator needs some fuel to fire him and this affair exists in a vacuum.”

“Surely you must have been close to the truth when you suggested he was attacked by a gang of roughs,” I said. “A base crime of opportunity, ruffians eager for what he may have carried in his purse?”

“It was my first thought, for we could not locate his purse,” Gregson admitted, “but murderers like that don’t chase their quarry through the streets, they leap out of a dark corner, strike quickly, then fade away.”

I thought about it for a moment. “Unless one of the attackers was known to De Montfort?” I suggested. “Perhaps a member of staff at one of the clubs? Working with a gang, tipping them off as to who would make rich pickings on their way home? If that were the case they could hardly allow him to escape. Say they attacked him but he broke free – hence he was seen running through the streets by your eyewitness – but they ran him to ground in Grosvenor Square, determined to silence him in case he informed the police of their involvement.”

“It’s a workable hypothesis, Doctor,” the inspector agreed, “and one that had occurred to me.”

Of course it had, I thought, amused at the fact that Gregson couldn’t bear to allow another to appear to have one up on him.

I looked to Holmes for some small sign of corroboration but he was still in the depths of his own thoughts, watching the buildings fly by beyond the cab window.

Once we arrived at the square, Holmes was quick to snap out of his daze, hopping down from the cab and dashing off into the snow.

“I’m afraid there will be little to see, Mr Holmes,” Gregson said, following at a distance.

“Certainly any useful story the ground may have chosen to tell has all but been erased,” Holmes agreed. “But it’s valuable to get a sense of the place.”

He looked around, pointing his cane before him like the needle of a compass as he surveyed the park and pictured the night before. “De Montfort enters from the north via Brook Street,” he said, “running towards the centre.” He followed in what must have been the young man’s footsteps. “Why, I wonder?’

“Presumably he was trying to shake his pursuers,” I said.

“If you were being chased through the streets by a gang of ruffians, Watson,” my friend replied, “then surely you would stick to the main thoroughfare? All the while shouting for assistance?”

“I suppose you would,” I admitted.

“So he entered the park for a reason,” Holmes insisted. “One that he felt might save his life.”

“Can we really look for logic in the man’s last panicked movements?” asked Gregson. “Surely he was simply running scared?”

“No,” Holmes replied, “his flight wasn’t random. According to your evidence he was walking from Knaves on St James’s Street to Salieri’s on Brook Street. If he was simply running in fear he would hardly have gone so far out of his way. He came here for a reason.”

“Which was?” the inspector asked, not without a degree of irritation.

“If I knew that, Gregson,” Holmes replied, “I would hardly still be stood here.”

He gave Gregson a brief smile and then began to stride towards the south exit. “Come, Watson,” he shouted, “time to consult an expert.”

Holmes and I left Gregson and headed towards Berkeley Square.

“I fear you’ve put our poor colleague in a bad mood,” I said with a smile.

“Colleague?” replied Holmes. “You flatter him.”

We continued our stroll through London’s more affluent areas, retracing the last journey of Hilary De Montfort as we worked our way to St James’s Street and its illustrious rows of private clubs.

“This expert you wish to consult, Holmes,” I said. “Would I be correct in assuming it to be Langdale Pike?”

“Indeed, Watson,” my friend replied, “there is no better man in London for shining a light on the movements of its social circle. If we wish to achieve an insight into Mr De Montfort, Pike is the man to help us.”

I couldn’t disagree with Holmes, though he knows only too well that I have no great love for Langdale Pike.

Pike had been a college friend of Holmes and had also risen to the top of an unusual profession. That profession, however, was one I found it hard to approve of. Pike was a gossipmonger, a trader in secrets and scandals. A number of the less respectable newspapers carried his columns, and London’s glittering socialites – vain moths who believed themselves to be butterflies – fluttered around him, despite the frequent harshness of his tongue. In the world of the socialite, there was only one thing worse than being talked about and that, as Oscar Wilde so astutely said, was
not
being talked about. In the rarefied atmosphere of the theatre openings and galas, the house parties and regattas, gossips like Pike were the fuel that kept your star burning brightly.

His “office” was the bowed window of his club on St James’s Street where he would sit, a small notebook close to hand which he would consult or add to as the day went on. He was a receiving house, a bottomless pit of flimsy news and allegation, topped up by every servant’s whisper or jilted lover’s accusation. From his pocket he would pull sharp, clean banknotes, paying out for every nugget of worth. And he paid well, he could afford to. Rumour had it that he earned a four-figure sum per annum from his newspaper articles. Which, as someone who has some experience in publishing, is no mean task I can assure you.

Holmes was tolerant of Pike’s occupation – indeed he often traded information with him – but personally I considered him to represent everything I found reprehensible about modern society.

Upon spotting us through the window Pike smiled and gave a delicate, regal wave.

We were led through to his private lounge by an elderly waiter who gazed upon the perpetually flamboyant Pike as if caught in the glare of the silk lining of his jacket.

“My dear Sherlock!” Pike rose and clasped Holmes’ hand. There was a sweet puff of cologne as Pike opened his arms and gestured for us to sit. “You will of course join me for lunch? There is some quite exquisite game pie.” For once, my natural inclination towards dining was tempered. I had no great desire to eat in this man’s company. Perversely, Holmes, a man whose main subsistence was tobacco, informed Pike that we would do so with pleasure.

“To what do I owe this visit, Sherlock?” Pike asked. “Or can I guess?”

“I would be disappointed if you couldn’t,” Holmes admitted.

Pike chuckled. “You have come to find out what I know of the late Hilary De Montfort,” he said, “in the hope that I can shed some light on what is unquestionably one of the most bizarre deaths to have reached my ears in the last twenty-four hours.”

“Not longer?” I asked, somewhat sarcastically.

“My dear Doctor,” Pike replied, “this is London, where the bizarre is a daily occurrence, thank God. If it were not so then I imagine both Sherlock and I would be forced to relocate.”

“I fear you give the city too much credit,” said Holmes, “it has been many weeks since something has threatened to grasp my attention.”

“Ah, but then you always were hard to please, I find the streets positively bristling with intrigue.”

“It takes more than
affaires
and new frocks to stimulate me,” Holmes agreed. “I am also fiercely impatient.”

Pike sighed and reached for his little notebook. “Indeed you are.” He shuffled through the pages, apparently refreshing his memory. I doubt Holmes was fooled. Given De Montfort’s very recent demise there was little doubt in my mind that Pike had already reminded himself of all he knew in preparation for writing about it.

“Of course,” he said finally, “young Hilary was always the black sheep of the De Montfort family. But then with such a boring clan that’s not difficult. Old money, old land. The sort of family that place more stock on knowing family history than they do current affairs. Heads in the past.”

“A family of noble heritage in other words,” I countered.

Pike shrugged. “If you say so. I see nothing worthwhile in looking in any other direction but towards the future.”

“Whereas, presumably,” Holmes said, “young Hilary struggled to look beyond the here and now?”

“One would imagine so,” Pike said, “though Hilary’s interests were considerably broader than you might imagine. In fact he was a member of the Golden Dawn.”

“The Golden Dawn?” I asked, “What’s that? One of the new gentlemen’s clubs?”

“Not quite,” Pike said. “The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn is an occult society, Doctor, which counts a number of celebrities amongst its ranks. The actress Florence Farr among them.”

“Well,” I said, “there’s no telling what she gets up to.”

“Indeed,” Pike agreed. “I’m afraid there’s no telling what any of them get up to. I know relatively little about what goes on there.”

Holmes raised a surprised eyebrow.

“They wouldn’t let me join,” Pike explained, causing Holmes to bark a laugh and clap his hands.