Sherlock Holmes and the King of Clubs (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Special Delivery

One week later

I
T WAS A
little after six o’clock in the evening when Dr John H. Watson saw the day’s final patient out of his office. In her sixties, the poor woman wasn’t much older than he, and yet there was a world of difference between them. Aside from his gammy leg and a modest thickening at the waist, Watson still retained his straight-backed, square-shouldered military bearing, and continued to enjoy almost rude good health. Mrs Levy, by contrast, was short and overweight, and suffered with recurring nausea and stomach pain, the pain predominantly over the right quarter of her considerable abdomen.

While Watson examined her, she explained nervously that she had put off visiting him for as long as she could in the hope that the problem, whatever it was, would clear up of its own accord. But when the pain grew worse instead of better … well, she had gone to see the local apothecary, who had recommended she seek the opinion of a physician. Beside herself with worry, she had done precisely that.

The woman’s history, coupled with the yellow pigmentation that was visible in the whites of her eyes, was enough for Watson to make a preliminary diagnosis – that she had developed jaundice, probably due to one or more gallstones obstructing her bile duct. An X-ray would be required to confirm this – but such a
prospect, when he mentioned it, had thoroughly alarmed his patient.

‘Do I have to have one, doctor?’ she asked fearfully.

‘You don’t
have
to,’ her eplied. He finished writing his referral and slipped it into an envelope, which he then licked, sealed and addressed. ‘I cannot
make
you attend your appointment, Mrs Levy. But I must impress upon you the need for clarity in this matter.’

She considered that, then enquired anxiously, ‘Will it hurt?’

He smoothed his small, neatly-clipped moustache. The X-ray had been a vital diagnostic tool now for almost two decades, and yet still the so-called “ordinary man in the street”’ harboured a distinct sense of unease when subjected to it. ‘No, Mrs Levy,’ he assured her gently, ‘I promise you it will not hurt.’

‘But it
is
important, you say?’

‘Vitally so. We have to know the exact nature of your ailment before we can address it, don’t we?’

‘Yes, I suppose so…. All right, doctor,’ she agreed reluctantly. ‘I suppose you know beSt Is there anything I can do in the meantime? You know, just to feel better, like?’

‘Firstly, I would advise you not to worry unduly.’ He handed her the referral and helped her up. ‘And for your own sake, I recommend that you try to reduce your weight.’

‘Would that I could, doctor. But it ain’t easy. Not after eighteen children, anyway.’

‘Nevertheless you must try, Mrs Levy. You will feel a considerable benefit.’

‘I will, sir,’ she promised. ‘You’ve been so kind, settin’ me nerves at rest like this.’ She hesitated, then cocked her head and studied him for a moment. ‘I tell you what, sir. I’ll make you a bread puddin’ and drop it round. A special one, with currants and all sorts in it.’

‘There’s no need for that.’

‘It’ll be my pleasure, sir. Kindness given should see kindness returned.’

Watson didn’t press the point. She obviously wanted to show her appreciation … and he
was
rather partial to bread pudding.
‘Well … thank you.’

The surgery occupied two lower-ground-floor rooms in a tall, narrow house that overlooked the south bank of the River Thames. Watson escorted Mrs Levy outside and across the stark waiting room to the curtained glass doors.

As she stepped outside into the chilly Deptford dusk, Mrs Levy looked at him once more. She gave him an appreciative smile that revealed two missing teeth and then struggled awkwardly up the worn cement steps toward the street.

Watson locked the door after her, switched off the gas mantels – electric lighting had yet to reach this impoverished part of the city – and returned to his office to finish making notes on the woman’s card.

He had been attending the Bacton Street surgery in the capacity of a locum for two weeks now, having more or less retired from medical practice upon his sixtieth birthday, the year before. Although medicine had become increasingly secondary to his career as a writer, he had happily accepted the request to stand in for a medical colleague who had been laid low with a viral illness.

He had enjoyed his return to practice, and Watson was surprised by just how much he had missed it.

The pleasure he derived from returning to work was especially heartening because some months earlier his life had been turned upside-down by the unexpected death of Grace, his wife of almost ten years. And in the dark months that followed, he had thought never to derive satisfaction from anything ever again.

But in all respects, Watson was recovering far better than he could have hoped. His life was getting back on an even keel – until, that was, he heard a soft, sibilant sound and looked up just as a folded sheet of paper was slipped beneath his closed office door.

Startled, he limped hurriedly across the room. Not bothering to pick up the note, he opened the door, determined to confront whoever had broken into the locked surgery to deliver it.

The dark waiting room was empty.

The room was lit only by the bluish glow of the streetlamps outside. It was sparsely furnished, offering no place to hide, and
Watson crossed the outer room and checked the front door. It was still locked.

Puzzled, he bolted the doors, top and bottom. Then, his sense of unease only increasing, he limped back to his office, stooping to pick up the note before closing the inner door behind him.

Unfolding the note, he held it up to the light and read:

The note was not signed.

Angry now, for Irene Hastings – undoubtedly the Mrs Hastings of the anonymous note – was a dear personal friend, Watson went to his desk and set the note on his blotter so he could study it more closely. It yielded no clues. Of course, if Holmes had been there he would discover all manner of hints and indications during his first examination. But, though Watson had grown familiar with his companion’s methods over their years together, he still lacked the expertise to use them to the fullest.

Though a casual observer might have found it hard to believe, Watson had once lived an adventurous life, first with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and later the Berkshires, as an assistant surgeon. He had served in the Second Afghan War and been wounded at the Battle of Maiwand. While recovering at a hospital in Peshawar he had contracted enteric fever and, severely weakened, been invalided out of the army and sent back to England.

It was during this unhappy period that his fortunes had turned. Unable to survive as comfortably as he would have liked on an army pension of eleven and sixpence a day, he had decided to seek a companion with whom to share the expenses of living in central London. It was then that a mutual friend named Stamford had introduced him to Sherlock Holmes.

That had been in 1881 – a little over three decades ago.

Their subsequent years together had been eventful, to say the leaSt But like all good things, they had finally come to an end. Watson had married for the third time in 1903, and though he and Holmes had continued to see each other regularly for the next year or so, they had finally gone their separate ways. Holmes had retired in 1909 to keep bees in his beloved Sussex, and written a highly regarded book upon the subject called
Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen.
Watson had seen him even less frequently thereafter. Indeed, the last time had been at the funeral of his beloved Grace.

His thoughts returned to Irene Hastings. How
dare
the writer of the note try to defame her! The woman had been a tower of strength to him in the months following Grace’s death. Watson doubted that he could have survived that period without her.

They had met by chance at a restaurant where she was dining with her brother, Robert. He was a pleasant, jocular fellow, and Irene and Grace had got along famously until their friendship had been cut short by Grace’s sudden death.

Irene and Robert had immediately offered Watson their support. Irene had been widowed for several years, and knew perhaps better than most how Grace’s death had devastated him. It was inevitable, he supposed, that he should eventually develop certain …
feelings
for her. Tall and willowy, with fair hair that hinted at Nordic ancestry and eyes as clear and bright as the finest diamonds, she turned heads wherever she went. Robert, sensing Watson’s attraction for his sister – and the awkwardness of it coming so soon after his bereavement – had deliberately made himself scarce so that their relationship might flourish with some degree of privacy.

Watson now looked at the address on the note again: The Shiells Hotel, Beckworth Park Road, NW. The address was not familiar to him and he wondered if the note was part of a plan to lure him into danger. He and Holmes had made no shortage of enemies during their years together. Yet somehow he did not think it likely. He and Holmes had not worked together for almost a decade, and as far as Watson was aware, Holmes himself had
not engaged in any professional cases since the murder of Fitzroy McPherson in 1907.

So what was the intention of the anonymous note-writer? A practical joke? If so, it was a decidedly unfunny one, as the perpetrator would soon discover. For if Watson did go to Beckworth Park Road, he would take his loaded service revolver with him.

But of course, there was no
if
about it. He
would
go, if only to satisfy his curiosity.

He scowled at the wall-clock. It was now twenty minutes past six. Time enough to return to his lodgings in Queen Anne Street and prepare for whatever events this dark autumn evening had in store.

CHAPTER THREE

Appearances are Deceptive

T
HE NIGHT WAS
cold, and a biting wind brought with it a miserable, slanting drizzle. For a moment, as Watson peered out into the darkness, he was tempted to dismiss the note as a ridiculous prank and simply stay at home. He found himself wondering again, though, how the messenger had passed through a locked door in order to deliver it. And why he – or she – had chosen to libel Irene Hastings, of all people?

These questions required answers and Watson knew he could not rest until he had them.

He turned from the window, checked his Webley Mk II, and tucked the gun into his Chesterfield overcoat. After buttoning the garment, he tugged his grey herringbone cap down over his thinning sandy hair and went outside to hail a cab.

The hansom took him north across London, past the dark, countrified sprawl of Regent’s Park and on through the urban maze of Chalk Hill until it reached Belsize Park. Here the driver stopped, as directed, at the corner of Beckworth Park Road. Watson climbed down into the wintry night, hooked his cane over one arm and paid the driver.

As the coach drove off, Watson surveyed his surroundings. The street was largely residential. A row of stuccoed terraced houses curved away from him. The front door of each house was flanked by whitewashed Doric columns. Each had a cast-iron balcony on the second floor, but over the years the neighbourhood 
had fallen into decay and was now nowhere near as grand nor fashionable as it had once been.

Watson took out his pocket watch and saw that it was just after 8.30. Good. He had deliberately planned to arrive early. Squaring his shoulders, he limped along Beckworth Park Road, keeping to the shadows between the streetlamps lest he already be under observation. The sound of his footsteps and the click of his cane on the pavement mingled with the noise of the wind and pattering rain.

One of the houses ahead of him had been converted into a dismal bed-and-breakfast establishment. The sign hanging above the entrance identified the place as THE SHIELLS HOUSE. Lamplight showed in its white-framed windows and a lantern swung over the closed front door, causing flickering shadows in the puddles on the pavement.

Watson took one final look around, then ducked into the darkness under the trees bordering the park. There he realized that the note-writer had been right about one thing – his present vantage offered him an excellent view of the hotel while he himself was practically invisible to anyone on the street.

Various emotions warred within him: unease, anxiety, indignation for Irene and a concern that he had been the victim of a practical joke after all.

It was the longest half-hour Watson had ever spent. Cold and uncomfortable, he had decided to wait for ten more minutes when he heard the distinctive sound of a motorized taxicab approaching.

Moments later a green Panhard Levassor appeared, its yellow wheels splashing through puddles, its oil lamps casting a mustard glow in the rainy darkness ahead.

Immediately, Watson ducked further behind a tree.

The cab came closer, slowing as it neared the hotel. He held his breath as he waited to see who would alight.

A man in his late fifties stepped down first, wearing a top hat and carrying a stick. The fellow did not look familiar. He had a thin face and a grey pencil moustache – otherwise, he was quite unremarkable. Watson was certain he had never seen him before.

The man made to help his companion from the cab. Watson
felt a sinking feeling in his stomach as he sensed who this would be yet was loath to believe it.

Sure enough, a woman climbed out of the cab, and she was without any doubt Irene Hastings.

She stumbled against her companion. Her laughter carried across the street to Watson; it was a delightful sound, one he had enjoyed many times during their meetings. Yet he hated it now as it implied an intimacy between the two from which he was excluded.

Immediately Watson chastized himself. He had no right to feel jealous. He and Mrs Hastings were friends –
good
friends – but he had no claim upon her. And yet he had believed there existed between them an unspoken agreement. She had done nothing to disabuse him of that belief.

Now, though, he realized that he had been mistaken.

The man in the top hat paid the driver. He seemed in good humour, for Watson heard the driver thank him profusely for what he assumed was a generous tip.

The cabbie then turned his vehicle slowly to return the way he had come. As the headlamps swept across the park, Watson moved back even further so that he was quite hidden behind the tree. A moment later, once more covered by the darkness, Watson peered around the trunk in time to see Irene Hastings and her … her
gentleman friend
… entering the hotel.

Watson’s heart sank. He realized there was only one possible interpretation. Irene Hastings had given him the distinct impression that their friendship would ultimately lead to a more permanent state of affairs. She had indicated that they had an understanding and with such sincerity that he had almost convinced himself that he was falling in love with her.

Still, he had maintained a discreet distance, unwilling to commit himself to another relationship so soon after Grace’s death. But he had always enjoyed the company of women and had never been happier than when married. And when her brother’s business ran into financial difficulties, Watson had been only too willing to loan him money….

An alarming thought occurred to him and, suddenly the
phrase used in the note rang in his ears.

MRS HASTINGS IS NOT WHAT YOU THINK SHE IS.

Were his fledgling suspicions right, then? That her only interest in him had been his money? He didn’t want to acknowledge the possibility, but now that he thought about it there had been numerous occasions when he had offered to help Irene and Robert financially. There were the shares he had bought in the Dartford Shipping Company. Robert, claiming insider knowledge, had assured him that its stock would rise within six months to double its present worth, and so Watson had invested heavily – or rather, Robert had taken his money and invested it upon his behalf.

Then there had been the solicitor’s fees to pay for the transaction, and a loan to pay one of Robert’s more pressing business debts.

Suddenly Watson saw that he had been played for a fool and his usually mild temper flared. There was only one way to settle this thing, and that was to go over there now and confront her.

But even as he stepped out from behind the tree, the curved handle of another walking stick hooked and his arm a familiar voice said, ‘Hold hard, Watson. Not so fast.’

Stunned, Watson turned and faced a tall, spare silhouette.

‘H-Holmes…?’

The figure stepped forward and unhooked his cane from Watson’s arm. ‘Forgive the somewhat dramatic nature of my entrance, old friend,’ he said, removing a kid glove in order to shake Watson’s hand. ‘I am sorry that we should meet again under these circumstances.’

Watson, confused, shook his head. ‘What circumstances, Holmes?’ And then: ‘By God, it was
your
note that brought me here, wasn’t it?’

Holmes’s silence confirmed that it was.

‘What do you know about Mrs Hastings?’ Watson demanded. ‘And why did you have to be so damnably mysterious about it?’

Holmes glanced across the road at the hotel. Dressed in an immaculate, double-breasted frock coat and a beaver top hat, he looked as tall and gaunt as ever, with his high, pale forehead and oiled, backswept hair that was now the colour of steel. ‘Come,’
Holmes said briskly. ‘We have some letters to post.’

‘Letters? What the deuce are you talking about?’

Holmes didn’t reply. He stepped out of the trees, onto the pavement, and walked quickly back along the street until he reached the postbox on the corner. It was all Watson could do to keep pace with him.

Upon reaching the box, Holmes took out a thin stack of envelopes and stuffed them into the slot. As Watson studied his friend’s profile he was momentarily transported back in time, for it seemed just then that the years had hardly touched Holmes. Age had done nothing to reduce his more than six feet; his grey eyes appeared as incisive as ever; his nose still as thin and hawk-like; his chin as square and prominent as it had ever been.

Then Holmes started across the road. Watson hurried after him, realizing that time had left something else about Holmes unchanged – his ability to be as insufferably cryptic as ever.

They climbed the steps to the Shiells House. Without pausing, Holmes pushed open the door and entered a hallway with a counter along the left-hand wall. Behind it sat a scruffy-looking clerk of about thirty, dressed in a white shirt, maroon tie and a food-stained navy waistcoat. Looking up from the paper he’d been reading, he greeted Holmes and Watson.

‘’Evenin’, sirs. ’Ow can I help you?’

Holmes glanced at the register. Reading the most recent entry, he said to Watson, ‘Mr and Mrs Haslemere, Room Seven.’ Then, fixing the clerk with a penetrating stare he snapped, ‘The pass-key, if you will.’

‘P-pass-key?’

‘I have yet to meet the lock I cannot master,’ Holmes replied, ‘but the pass-key will make my job here tonight considerably easier.’

‘You’re talking in riddles, mate. Are you drunk? You’d better ’op it.’

Holmes stood his ground. ‘As an accomplice in blackmail, you presently occupy a very precarious legal position. Were I you, I should look to distance myself from the prime movers in this sordid enterprise and cooperate before the authorities get involved.’

Watson watched the blood drain from the clerk’s face. ‘I dunno …’ he began.

‘Then I suggest you summon a policeman at once, for part of your premises is presently being used for a highly immoral purpose.’

The clerk grew surly. ‘I know nothing ’bout that, guv.’

‘Then give me the pass-key and don’t interfere,’ ordered Holmes.

Grudgingly the clerk obeyed. ‘Remember now, I don’t want no trouble.’

Ignoring him, Holmes climbed the stairs to the first floor. Labouring behind him, Watson said, ‘B-blackmail? Holmes – what is this all about?’

‘Very soon now,’ Holmes replied grimly, ‘you will see for yourself.’