Sherlock Holmes and The Other Woman (17 page)

Mollified, he grinned and said, elaborately, “Sooo, if I might go on with my tale, Mr H?”

With a wave of my hand, I signalled he might continue. Watson managed to stifle a chuckle.

“I 'ad Tommy and the others standing by and I left them with Bashir. Then I 'eaded up to Holloway. I got cousins up that way and I got them working on finding out about Bramley and Sons. They'll send word if they learn aught.

“Then after a spot of dinner - my Aunt Mable makes the best gingerbread - back I comes to t'Angel. It was closing-up time by then and Tom-Tom said Bashir 'adn't made a move from 'is stall since I left. We decided Tommy would stick with Bashir and I'd keep an eye on the bloke what he was meeting.

“So it's almost seven o'clock and off our friend goes to the Five Crowns. Me and Tom-Tom followed taking care 'is nibs didn't spot us.

“Down 'e sits in the pub and in comes a man you'd know, Mr 'olmes.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “A tall, fair man?”

“Ha! I knew that would get you all excited. But you're wrong.”

“Wrong?”

Watson spluttered. It might have been laughter. I was too astonished at Billy's tale to pay much heed.

“So who was it?”

“A man who ain't no Frenchman, if you get my drift.”

“Watteau?” I said.

“'Cept that's not the name 'e's using. 'e's Flaubert this week.”

“How did you recognise him?” Watson said. “How can you be sure it's the same man?”

“Mr 'olmes gave me 'is picture ages ago. You said 'e'd be back and you was right.”

“Watteau,” I said. “I owe that gentleman... Damnation! I could have had my hands on him.”

Billy hadn't lost his smug expression and I realised my distress was premature. “Well?” I demanded. “There's more?”

“Heaps!” He grinned, winked at Watson and added, “Reckon my shilling's safe enough.” He chortled and I could not help but laugh. He continued his tale.

“As I said, me and Tommy 'ad arranged that 'e would follow Bashir and I'd keep watch on the bloke 'e was meeting. Sure enough, after 'anding over a wad full of notes, Monsoor Whatsisname gets up and leaves. I follows behind. Not too close, but I didn't let 'im out of my sight neither. I reckoned 'e'd get a cab and I started to wish I'd sent Tommy back to you, Mr 'olmes, but 'e didn't do that. Get a cab, I mean.

“Nah, 'e goes down the Pentonville Road and waits in Claremont Square. It weren't a nice night for a wait but 'e didn't 'ave long. A few minutes later along comes Bashir. I was 'iding in the trees and neither the Frenchman nor the Arab spotted me. I couldn't see Tommy, but I knew 'e weren't far away. Just as the Arab drew level with Frenchie, Watteau or whatever 'is name is steps out and shoots the poor bastard dead.”

“What?” I cried.

“Good God,” said Watson.

“See, I thought that would put the wind up you.” Billy was remarkably calm. Strange how the young are immune to things that horrify adults.

“At that,” Billy continued, “the fake-Frog spotted Tommy and I saw 'e was thinking about firing at 'im. Leave no witnesses. 'Course, Tom-Tom was too far away to see the bloke's face, but I don't reckon a man like that would be the kind to take a chance.

“Anyway, Tom-Tom starts running towards us and... Well, I 'ad no option, did I?”

“What did you do?” Watson sounded as breathless as I felt.

“I jumped on top of the villain and managed to knock the pistol out of 'is 'and. Tommy blew 'is whistle and 'e 'elped me get the man to the ground and we sat on 'im.”

Billy chortled so hard at the recollection that tears of mirth streamed down his grubby cheeks. “Oh, you should 'ave seen 'im, Mr 'olmes,” he said. “What a conniption 'e made!

“Anyway, no more than a minute later a bobby comes along, Keller by name. Not someone I know but 'e did 'is job right enough. I tells 'im Mr 'olmes 'as been looking for this bugger, begging your pardon, sirs, and would be glad to know 'e was in flowery dell.”

“Flowery what?” Watson said.

“Flowery dell: prison cell,” I said. “Where is he now? Watteau?”

“They're 'olding 'im in the Islington Police Station. Tommy stayed to keep an eye on things. I said I'd come to fetch you. Thought you might want to see the villain for yourself, Mr H.”

“You have excelled yourself, Billy. You and Tommy both. But what a risk you took. Here-” I handed him a guinea. He looked at me with a triumphant grin. I suppose he was entitled.

I rose and fetched my coat. Watson said, “What happened to Bashir, Billy? Are you sure he's dead?”

“Dead, sir; dead before 'e 'it the ground, I reckon. Most of 'is head was blown off.”

“I am sorry to hear it. I rather liked him, despite everything. Do you want me to come with you, Holmes?”

“Thank you, Watson, but I doubt there's anything you can do. No, there is something. I would appreciate it if you would call Beatrice. She will be glad to know this fellow is behind bars.”

“Yes, of course. But are you sure you don't need me to come along?”

“It is a filthy night, my dear fellow. I'll be perfectly content if you will just let Beatrice know what's happening. She does not like it when I exclude her from important news, and this is exceedingly important.”

Chapter Sixteen

A short while later, Billy and I arrived at the police station in Stoke Newington High Street. It is a big, red-bricked building with a decidedly institutional air.

I did not know the policeman at the desk but he recognised Billy at once. “Ah, you came back, did you, lad?” he said. “There, that's sixpence I owe the sergeant.” To me, he said, “Are you really Mr Sherlock Holmes?”

“I am,” I replied. “I understand you have a man in custody. He speaks with a French accent and this evening he killed an unfortunate merchant from the Chapel Street Market. I should like to see him.”

“I'll fetch the sergeant,” the man said, springing to his feet. “Please take a seat, Mr Holmes. Is there anything I can fetch you? A cup of tea?”

“Nothing, thank you. Just the prisoner.”

The policeman hurried away and returned with his sergeant. The senior officer, a cyclist with a new baby and a red-headed wife, was about forty years of age and bore a capable air.

“Mr Holmes,” he said, shaking my hand with great enthusiasm. “Well I never! Do you know, when this young chap-” He ruffled Billy's unruly hair much to my young friend's disgust. “When this young chap said Mr Sherlock Holmes was a friend of his I had my doubts. Yes, indeed I did. But he seemed very particular and since he and the other boy had caught a cold-blooded killer I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“Yes, thank you, Sergeant. Tell me, have you spoken to the prisoner?”

“I've tried, Mr Holmes. He claims not to know any English and I'm afraid I never learned French.”

“He is not a Frenchman. He is Canadian. It is my belief he murdered an entire family. I would like to see him.”

“Yes...” The policeman hesitated, obviously uncertain that some upstart consulting detective might dismantle his case.

“Congratulations on the new baby,” I said. “Your first?”

“Yes! By Jove, yes indeed it is. But how on earth...?”

“You have a small creamy stain on your left shoulder. The result of an infant's posseting, I perceive. Fathers tend to be much more likely to look after their first born than later children, though there are exceptions, of course.”

“Why you are everything I had heard, Mr Holmes. Indeed you are. Yes, of course you can see the prisoner. This way if you please.”

“Billy, you stay here. I am sure the sergeant will need you to sign a statement, but I may need you again in any case. By the way, Sergeant, where is the other boy, Tommy?”

“He is having some tea and biscuits in the back. You want to join him, lad?” he said to Billy.

“Cor, rather!”

“Good lads,” the sergeant said as he led Billy into the break room to reunite with his old crony. “What a risk they took though, bringing down an armed man like that.”

“They are resourceful fellows,” I said. “They have proven their worth to me countless times.”

There came the sound of boyish laughter from the break room, and I thought how tickled the boys would be to tell their friends they'd been treated with such friendliness by the Regular police force.

I followed the policeman down into the cells and there was Watteau with a smug grin on his waxy, yellow face.

“Well,” I said. “I thought we'd meet again some day. How kind of you to accommodate me and come here, Monsieur. You saved me infinite pains.”

“Mr Holmes,” he said genially. “Why aren't you dead yet?”

“I am not so easy to kill. It is your own mortality that should concern you. Your time on this planet is running out. Caught red-handed with the weapon still hot. Brought down by mere boys, tut, tut. The press will pillory you and then the hangman will have his turn.”

“I should have killed you in Bitterne.”

“You would not have succeeded. Many men better than you, deadlier than you, have tried and failed.”

“It is all right. I've caused you pain. I wounded that pretty Lady Beatrice and that, in turn, wounds you. Oh, you have no secrets from me, Mr Meddlesome Holmes. I saw the way you looked at each other. I know I can do worse things to you than merely end your life.”

The implication stabbed my heart like a shard of ice. I held my indifferent face, however, and said, “Why did you kill the Arab?”

“He was of no further use.”

“Come now, that is not a reason.”

“It is the only reason I shall give.”

He turned his back and refused to say any more. At length I rose to leave. As the officer unlocked the cell door Watteau said, “You are responsible for the deaths of many people I esteemed, Mr Holmes. It is because of you that my old friend Albrecht Porlock hanged, leaving his wife without a husband and his children without a father. For shame. Your interference destroyed an organisation that would have paved the way for a new world, a better world. Only an Englishman would have such hubris as to think this mighty British Empire is without flaw. You will pay for your interference. Enjoy those boys and that lady while you can.”

I would not give him the satisfaction of lunging at him. I would not afford him any satisfaction at all. But I swear by God I would have ripped his throat out in an instant if I had not managed to keep the tightest hold of my emotions.

No.

I would not give him the satisfaction.

At the sergeant's invitation, I joined the boys in the break room. I was shaking with anger and I needed to get my temper under control.

Tommy and Billy grinned at me when I came into the room. “We did all right, didn't we, Mr 'olmes?” Tommy said, his mouth full of a jam sandwich.

I forced a smile and agreed that they had both done exceptional work. I gave Tommy a coin and his grin got even wider. “Cor! Thanks, Mr 'olmes!” he said.

“Two fine young men, Mr Holmes,” said the sergeant. “They're a credit to their parents and to you, too.”

The desk officer came in and said, “There's a lady here, Sergeant. Says she's a friend of Mr Holmes.” The policeman stared at me as he spoke as one might stare at a two-headed donkey.

“A lady? Alone?” the sergeant said.

“That will be Lady Beatrice,” I said. “Sergeant, you have been so accommodating. May I prevail upon you a little further?”

“Anything you need, Mr Holmes,” said he. For a moment, I was reminded of friend Watson.

“A room where I might speak alone with the lady.”

“Of course, of course. There's an office...”

Moments later, I was sitting in the cramped dingy room with my wife.

“I want to see him,” she said.

“It is out of the question.”

“It wasn't a request. Sherlock-”

“It is not a debate. I said no and I meant it.”

She glared at me with as much anger as I've ever seen her show. She is not a demonstrative woman as a rule. Well, there have been exceptions; but she shows her heart only rarely and then only to the people she trusts absolutely.

“You must trust me,” I said. I reached to take her hand but she snatched it away. She rose and paced, though the room was too small to allow more than three strides.

“You will own I have only your best interests at heart?” I said.

“Yes. And you will own we have a contract in which you agreed never to restrict my actions?”

“I know. Forgive me.”

Something in my tone held her and she turned to look at me.

“You're frightened,” she said. She sank into the chair and took my hands in hers. “My dear, I am the one who should ask forgiveness. I've never seen you look so distressed. Come. I will hear your argument.”

I related my conversation with Watteau verbatim.

“You think I am at risk then?” she said. “I and the boys?”

“Yes.”

“Then this whole business of the coins and murders in Hatton Garden is altogether darker than we supposed.”

I did not reply.

“Sherlock?”

“I feel manipulated,” I cried.

“By me?”

“No! Good God, no. But all through this case I have felt I was being fed pieces of information in order to lead me in a certain direction. The whole thing is still too murky for me to determine who is behind it.”

“Watteau's involvement is chilling. Yes, I understand.”

“Beatrice, I promised the Queen that I would never let you come to harm. I wish I could guarantee your safety.” I sighed then said, “I do not suppose I could persuade you to stay in Windsor...?”

“Good heavens, no, never again.” She smiled and settled back into silence. Then, after a few moments reflection said, “What if I left London for a time?”

“France is no safer. The violence has not abated.”

“No, not France. Sussex. I have a cottage there.”

“Really?”

“My dear Sherlock, I gave you a complete inventory of my property when we decided to marry. You did not read it.”

“It was not important. But you would go?”

It seemed altogether too easy. My wife is not one to give in without a fight.

“My presence in London can only distract you. I might end up getting you killed. No, I shall bury my pride and go to Sussex, and I shall bring those boys with me.”

“Boys?”

“Billy and Tommy. I owe them a great deal, Sherlock, and they are no less at risk than I am. Besides, the sea air will do them both a lot of good. Their mothers will not mind, will they?”

I released a long breath. “Thank you. Your capacity for surprising me seems infinite. I confess I shall be immensely relieved to know you are safe. As for their mothers, I doubt they will even notice the boys are gone. Billy and Tommy spend half their lives on the streets, as it is. I shall take care of the families, in any case.

“How soon can you go?”

“I can leave in a day or two, but the boys will be needed for the trial, won't they?”

“Yes. I shall see if I can get the case expedited... It will still take a few days to arrange, though.”

“The boys can stay with me in Wimpole Street,” Beatrice said, “Until we're ready to leave for Sussex.”

“And by your leave I will stay with you, too.”

“You do not even need to ask, my dear. Come, let us tell the boys. I hope they will not be too upset.”

Upset? Ha! I thought they would deafen me with their cheers and hurrahs. The policemen chortled at the boys' exuberance and I could not help but smile.

“And stay with you, miss? In that fancy house in Wimpole Street? Really, miss? Cor!”

Watson was half-asleep when I telephoned. Though I told him to stay at home, he insisted on coming to Wimpole Street, bringing his weapon and mine to ensure our friends' safety. Just a short while later, we all gathered in my wife's house.

The boys were on the very best behaviour; they were too awed to be rowdy. They had a bath without demur (I suspect astonishment at the sight of clean water rendered them mute), put on the nightshifts that had been found for them, and drank cocoa. Only after they had been bundled off to bed did they begin to giggle.

What Beatrice's staff made of her bringing two filthy street urchins into her home I can only guess, but they made no comment in my hearing.

“It is kind of you to take care of the boys like this, Beatrice,” Watson said in a drowsy voice after a late supper. “They have little enough joy in their lives. If it were not for Holmes I do not know what would become of them.”

I waved away this tribute. “We have a mutually satisfactory arrangement,” I said. “The boys have often proven themselves of immense help in my work and I pay them fairly, I hope. Their home lives are... well, less than satisfactory.

“Billy's mother tries hard but with six children and no husband she finds it very difficult to make ends meet. Billy has a good brain and would do well in school, but he must help support his brothers and sisters and so his education is almost non-existent. That he can even read is a tribute to his own determination.”

“And Tommy?”

“Tommy's case is even worse. His mother is a prostitute and he never knew his father. Oftentimes he cannot go home because his mother is entertaining one of her clients. Yet of all the boys, his is the kindest heart...”

I said nothing more. I could have told Beatrice that Tommy has a special regard for her. I suspect he harbours a fantasy that she and I will one day adopt him. I wonder what she would make of such a dream.

Watson at last went to bed. I believe he enjoys sleeping in what Beatrice calls ‘John's room'. It suits him, somehow, with its cheery rose wallpaper and charming view of the back garden. We decided he would look after my wife and the boys while I conduct business elsewhere. It is only for a few days, I hope.

Wednesday 4 May 1898

This morning after breakfast, I took a cab to Whitehall. It has been some time since I saw Mycroft, nor have I heard from him. That is not unusual, of course. I suspect events in Africa have been keeping him busy.

Gillespie greeted me with his customary warmth. “Come in, come in, Mr Holmes,” he said. “Let me take your coat. Such a damp and gloomy day it is. There now, that's better... He's not engaged at present. You may go straight up. Shall I bring you up some coffee?”

“That would be most welcome, thank you.”

Mycroft was on the telephone when I entered but he waved me to the armchair by the fire. His voice was civilised, calm, evenly measured. He was, in other words, furious.

He hung up the receiver at last and spluttered. “Insufferable incompetents!” Then, calmer, “Hullo, Sherlock. How are you this misty morning?”

“Better than you, I fear, dear brother. South Africa?”

“Egypt. But never mind that. Did you have a pleasant night in Wimpole Street?” He sat in the chair opposite me with a suppressed groan and eased his right leg onto the footstool.

“I thought I had brushed away the last of Mme Chabon's croissant crumbs from my waistcoat,” I said.