The Murder of Mary Russell (33 page)

But Holmes did not breathe fully until the Radcliffe Highway was three turns behind him.

The Bishop might know who Samuel's father was. Did that possibility justify confronting Mrs Hudson with the question? Holmes was afraid that answer was yes.

Assuming the missing fortune was recovered: would The Bishop be satisfied with a cut, however generous? Not for one minute.

Would they ever be faced with that problem? About that he felt even more certain: no. The money was a pipe-dream. Jack Prendergast's cleverly defrauded fortune lay scattered across the sea bed, somewhere off the African coast. Prendergast's treasure would no doubt take on mythic weight over time, joining the fountain of youth, Prester John's kingdom, the Holy Grail, and the El Dorado gold.

So distracted was Holmes, he nearly forgot to retrieve his flowery call for help from the newsagent's shelf.

B
ecause Mycroft was not in his flat that day, I could be. According to him, the Palace breakfast often merged with luncheon. After that was finished, he would make his formal handing-over of approved names to the printing offices of the
London Gazette
. And following that, with many long days behind him and several hours of booze-laced breakfast, lunch, and ritual under his belt, he planned to retire to the Diogenes Club, whose silent and soporific arms rarely let him go much before midnight.

The
London Gazette
had been
the
journal of record for government matters since 1665 (beginning in Oxford, by the way, with plague gripping London and the court of Charles II chary about contaminated reading matter). “Published by Authority,” its header declared, and it took that responsibility very seriously indeed. If it was in the
Gazette,
it had better be both true and accurate, or heads would roll. Mycroft's physical presence at the ritual was a sign of its importance.

It had also been the reason behind the unwonted turmoil of his normally placid home during this past week: maddening discussions of honours list minutiae, conducted both in person with an endless series of visitors and over telephone connexions of varying degrees of clarity. The rumble of voices and ring of the bell had been nearly constant, and wore on my already raw nerves. Yet I was also grateful for his preoccupation: were it not for the birthday honours, I might have been forced into conversation, and thus a confrontation over the ethical use of power for which I did not feel ready.

At any rate, Mycroft's absence meant that Billy and I were free to set up our studies upon his dining table, our metal box making stark contrast to the table's usual sumptuous burden.

Some of the box's contents were expected: passport, cheque-book, a notebook with addresses, most of them Australian. I set that aside for the moment, and picked up the letters.

James Hudson—our Mrs Hudson's father—had been a surprisingly dedicated if marginally literate correspondent, first to his wife and later to his daughter Alicia. There were only a dozen letters here, but internal references made it clear that considerably more had filled the long gaps between these—either discarded or left behind in Australia. I sorted them by date and started reading. In minutes, Billy's forehead was resting on the table. When the snoring began, I shook him awake and ordered him home.

He blinked rapidly and scrubbed at his face, which, even with his slow-growing beard, showed bristle. “I'll just kip on the sofa.”

“Billy, go home. Remind your wife who you are.” I broke into the inevitable protest to address his true concern. “I give you my word, I'll telephone to you the very instant Holmes proposes to hare off to some corner of the globe.”

He studied my face for deception, but in fact, I had already decided that whatever was going on here, William Mudd seemed to have some place in it. Too, between my sore arm and Holmes' years, having another hearty set of muscles might not be a bad idea.

He nodded and yawned simultaneously, nearly causing himself damage, and retrieved his coat from the back of the chair. He did pause at the door. “You swear you'll ring me?”

“Unless there's a gun to my head, I shall call.”

Alone, at last, for the first time since Samuel Hudson had pulled into my drive on Wednesday morning. (Or did a car journey with a dead man count as “alone”?) I went for a quick search in Mycroft's library for the volume containing the
Gloria Scott
adventure, then arranged some pillows on his deep settee and settled in with Dr Watson's narrative, about a young man, a friendship, and the first stirring instincts of a detective.

When I had finished, I returned to the table and the Hudson letters.

James Hudson died long before I was born, so I only knew him through Dr Watson's story, and to a lesser extent, the eyes of Sherlock Holmes. Physically unsightly and morally repugnant, Hudson stood in my mind as an ageing mutineer-turned-blackmailer who had raised the ire of a fledgling detective. That Hudson might have had a life outside of those crimes and that detective seemed unimportant when compared to the direction Holmes' life had taken after—and, in part, because of—that meeting. I had, as I told Holmes, long known that our Mrs Hudson was in some way linked to the Hudson of the
Gloria Scott
case, but I had vaguely assumed that she had once been married, either to the villain or to his son.

She was instead the villain's daughter.

I had learned more about Mrs Hudson these past three days than in the previous ten years. I was also learning some uncomfortable truths about myself. Despite my affection and gratitude for this woman (once I'd satisfied myself, back in 1917, that any secrets she was hiding were no threat to Holmes), I never tried to find out more about her. As an individual, she was as much a part of my scenery as the sheep on the Downs and the basket chair in the sitting room.

I was astonished, and fascinated, and—yes—somewhat troubled by what I learned of Mrs Hudson, those days and the time that followed. But mostly, I was ashamed, that I had never even asked.

Many hours later, the key in Mycroft's door startled me from reverie. I shot a glance at the clock: ten after eleven. I'd intended to retreat to the guest room before now—but to my relief, it was the thinner of the brothers. “Hello, Holmes. I was wondering if I'd see you again today.”

Holmes aimed his furled umbrella at the stand and dropped his hat on the small marble table, shrugging off his overcoat as he crossed the room.

“Been seeing your banker?” I asked. On a Saturday? The ebony suit he wore was not the one he'd started the day inside.

“
A
banker, certainly. I required a tutorial in the history of currency. Whose hand is that?” he asked with a glance at the paper on the table before me.

“James Hudson's.”

He held the page up to the light—interested in the writing, rather than the words. With a grunt, he dropped it and went on into the flat. I gathered the letters and moved to the fire, adding some coal to the embers. Holmes returned wearing an old quilted smoking jacket in place of his City black. He poured a pair of brandies and handed me one.

One eyebrow went up at my eagerness. “Your arm is troubling you.”

“It's just uncomfortable. What sorts of currency?”

“The tutorial was on the theory of money, not the practice. I needed to know how a man might carry £250,000 between his finger and his thumb.”

“Two hundred fif—good God, Holmes,” I sputtered. “Who has
that
kind of money?”

He had settled onto the chair to my right, red Morocco slippers propped on the low table. “That,” he said, holding his glass up to admire the colour, “is an interesting question.”

“This has to do with Samuel Hudson?”

“I cannot for the life of me believe in The Bishop's theory; however, there is no doubt that the man himself does, and that may be the only important factor.”

“Explain, please.”

“What do you remember of the
Gloria Scott
?”

“Only Dr Watson's account, and what you told me yesterday.”

“As the story came to me, one of the convicts being transported was a man named Jack Prendergast, convicted of fraud. His partner on board, he told Trevor—my friend Victor's father—had enough money to buy the entire ship, ‘right between my finger and thumb.' Now, whether that was the same as cash in a strong-box, or whether his accomplice was holding securities or the like for him, was never clear.”

“But the ship blew up.”

“That it did. The two convicts who later became Trevor and Beddoes had already been put into the ship's boat, along with a few sailors who drew the line at murder. After the powder barrels blew, they went back for survivors. They found only James Hudson among the wreckage. None of those convicts would have been in any position to have more than a few coins about their persons.

“And yet, one of the oldest and most vicious of criminals in London believes with all his black heart that Jack Prendergast's stolen treasure survived the destruction of the
Gloria Scott
.”

“Is
that
what Samuel Hudson was after?”

“So it would appear.”

“Why? I mean, why would he think…” that it survived? That Mrs Hudson had it? That my abduction could lead him to it?

“Do any of those letters mention The Bishop, or a moneylender?” he asked.

“Not by name, though he does say he's in debt to what he calls an ‘unofficial' moneylender.”

“That might have been enough. Or the name could be in another letter—or even something he was told in conversation. In any event, some four days after Samuel Hudson came to London, he went to visit The Bishop. At the time, he was aware that his grandfather may have possessed a certain amount of money, but he did not know how much or what had become of it.”

“Well, the last of James Hudson's letters,” I told him, “written in October, 1879, refers to a ‘goodly stash' that will let them live in comfort, once he gets to Sydney.”

“What day in October?” he asked sharply.

“The second. Why?”

“Interesting. What else—”

“No, you first. I take it this black-hearted villain of yours is The Bishop? Why does he think Samuel was looking for the Prendergast money?”

“Because he would be, if he were Samuel. And once he told Samuel exactly how much was involved, it brought our Australian friend to his side very quickly.”

“I imagine it would. But why kidnap me? Did they think one of us knew something?”

I'd kept my tone casual, but Holmes' face went instantly dark. “Long ago, I let it be known that to touch you would be considered an act of war.”

“I see.” And I did. A criminal would have to be either mad or remarkably sure of himself to go against Holmes. Which was not to say that criminals were not both.

“The Bishop may have encouraged Samuel Hudson,” he said. “However, I do not believe he was directly responsible for what Samuel Hudson did.”

“So you didn't pull his head off?”

“I even made him an offer of assistance,” he said.

“A
criminal
?”

“I gave him to understand that I would be assisting in his hunt for the missing Prendergast monies.”

“You allied with a villain like The Bishop to protect
me
? Holmes, what were you thinking!”

“It was not entirely for your benefit,” he conceded. “I also required a means of extricating myself from what looked to become a warm situation.”

“Oh. Good—I mean, not good that he had a gun to your head, but I'm glad we haven't picked up a business partner.”

“In fact,” he said, “I searched for that many back in the 'eighties. Young as I was, I cannot believe I missed anything of importance.”

Was that the sound of a case approaching—one that promised to be both long and frustrating? A hunt for sunken treasure, seventy years after the fact? “Perhaps you should tell me a little more.”

I waited with growing apprehension as he filled his pipe and got it going. When he had stretched his dramatic pause to its end, he continued. “The survivors, as I said, were rescued by a ship bound for Australia. After a remarkably few years there, two of the convicts, under their new names Trevor and Beddoes, returned to England with fortunes in Australian gold. They bought houses, established themselves, built strong façades of respectability. Trevor married and had the son I later befriended at University. They all lived lives of happy comfort until Hudson came creeping out of the sea in 1879 with a threat of exposure.

“I cannot say I ever questioned the source of the Trevor estate. Striking it rich in the gold fields fit what I knew about my friend's father—as did the idea that, once his youthful adventures were over, he'd had the good sense to invest and nourish his money rather than fling it about on high living.