Sherlock Holmes and The Scarlet Thread of Murder (6 page)

We cleaned up the mess at
The Weekly Dispatch
and my men scoured Lamech's old rooms for any clues that might be of use. Nothing turned up. It was as if the entire group had vanished into thin air. It was eleven o'clock at night, and the rain had turned the roads to mush. I sat in my office with the glow of an oil lamp to keep me company as I filed paper work. I was eager for an update regarding the efforts made to speak with survivors of the explosion, and loved ones of those who had lost someone to find any clue as to who planted that explosive.

Who poisoned Lamech, and why did his followers vanish? I reached into my pocket, and withdrew the silver ring with the Star of David on it. The tall man was my lead suspect in the Brown murder, but where was he?

***

“All the bodies have been identified,” said Inspector Lestrade, leaning back comfortably in the chair in front of my desk. “I've spoken to some of the families, and I can't see any connection to this Lamech. No one on that train posed any kind of threat to him or his organisation.”

I buried my face in my palms for a moment. “They may not have posed a
threat
to him. Was there anyone of interest?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary that I saw. Men and women on their way to work, running errands. It seems a random attack. There's no motive from Lamech's end. Other groups in questions have been accounted for that night as well.”

“This can't be purely random, Lestrade,” I pressed.

“I've got the list of the dead here, and the statements.” He slid some papers my way. “Maybe you can find something I missed.” Lestrade rose. ”I heard the anarchists have disappeared.”

“It's too convenient. I still have a couple other angles I need to check first.”

“Good luck.” Lestrade turned and walked out.

After I read through the statements left by Lestrade, I found Mr White in his chamber at the station. Lamech's body had been moved to a morgue. White was fast at work trying to figure out the composition of the chemicals used to ignite the explosive.

“Any luck?” said I, standing behind him while he mixed solutions.

“None,” he replied. “Maybe you shouldn't stand that close while I'm doing this.”

I took a few steps back. “Is there no way to trace the chemicals?” I asked.

“I've been trying. I've got nothing. Whoever did this is a chemical genius.”

“I need you to find me some answers!”

White put his work down and spun around in his chair to look at me. He removed the protective frames from his face and slid them upon his head. “I know you want answers. I assure you, I'm doing whatever I can to find them. Find out where the train terminates at night. That would be the best place to attach the bomb. Wouldn't have happened in between stops.”

“Say again?”

“Do I really need to?”

“Explain your logic,” said I.

“Well, the bomb wasn't inside the carriage, was it? It was underneath,” White said. “Doesn't seem likely that a bomb would be attached while passengers were boarding. No, it would have been put in place sometime in the night when the train was not in use.”

“And so whoever did it must have had an informant to know which train to put the bomb on to. That is, unless they stole that information.” I paused, captured in thought. This attack was being written off too quickly by the Yard. I needed to find the motive.

“You got it.”

Chapter 8

Doctor Watson

A Swift Drop And Sudden Stop

Autumn 1890

Back at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes was attempting to gain any clues he could from the bullets Daniels had given him. His attention was so fixated upon his task that he ignored several of my summons for food. For hours, my friend studied each and every bullet. Then, with a bang, he smacked his hand down upon his worktable. I, sitting reading in my chair, jolted and turned to look at him. He sat slouched, with a look of agitation upon his face, rubbing his forehead and quietly mumbling to himself.

“Whatever is the matter, Holmes?” I asked.

“There are no other fingerprints upon these bullets,” he snapped.

“But there are some?”

“Yes, but only Daniels'.”

“The hour is late,” said I. “Start afresh tomorrow, perhaps?”

“Off you go, Watson. I shall remain here a while longer.”

***

I was awoken by a pounding on my door. The sun had not yet risen.

“Watson, wake up. We must go back to Daniels immediately!”

“Good Lord, Holmes. What time is it?” I called back. He opened my door and poked his head in.

“The time is of no importance. We are summoned at once. There was an incident in the night.”

“I'm not sure night-time has passed,” I mumbled tossing my sheets away.

“Hurry, Watson!” said Holmes before dashing away.

I quickly readied myself and found Holmes at the bottom of the stairs. The street lamps were still lit and the sun had yet to rise as we jumped into a cab. Holmes told me that Lestrade had sent an urgent message saying that Mr Daniels had hanged himself and our assistance was needed.

We arrived to find a couple of officers standing near a police maria at the front of Daniels' house. The morning air was cold, and the freshly rising sun revealed a thin layer of frost upon the ground. Holmes and I were ushered in and greeted by Lestrade.

“Good of you to come so quickly, Mr Holmes,” said Lestrade.

“Tell me what happened,” Holmes said.

“My men saw you leave the house, and they kept a close watch. Everything seemed quiet and normal. About three thirty this morning, they heard a commotion. Daniels was shouting at someone. My officers swear on their lives that no one had entered the house, nor did they witness anyone leave. They heard the breaking of glass and rushed in to find Daniels hanging by the neck.”

“It was self-inflicted, this much I can tell,” said Holmes, looking at Daniels. “Take him down.” I looked around the room: there was a shattered glass bowl upon the floor which looked like Daniels must had kicked it when he took the fatal plunge. As the body was being taken down, Holmes began quietly examining the room, then left us as they laid the body on a table.

While Holmes looked around I examined the corpse of Mr Daniels. I noticed an odd smell upon him, and a strange purple colouring on the flesh around his eyes.

“What do you reckon?” Lestrade asked.”

“I'm not sure entirely,” said I, “but it does look like an effect from substance abuse.”

Just then Holmes returned, glanced at the body, leaned over and deeply inhaled before returning to his full height: “We have all we need. Lestrade, we will be in touch.”

***

In the cab, Holmes turned to me.

“What did you make of the body, Doctor?” he asked.

“The smell and discolouration? If memory serves me right he was poisoned by a rare flower found in Afghanistan...”

“Yes, the fire flowers are known to cause such effects. I've some knowledge of it”

“It's a rare poison, Holmes. If I remember correctly, the petals appear to perspire under certain temperatures. The liquid created has toxic effects if absorbed into the system. It will cause one to be slowly driven mad until death takes them. It leaves behind a terrible smell and the purple colouration around the eyes. During my war days I treated a few men who suffered from this poison.”

“How long does the poison take to kill its victim?”

“A small dose will take upwards of a month.”

“Remind me of the symptoms?”

“Paranoia was common in all of them. It started slowly before manifesting into some kind of physical fear. One soldier attacked a captain whom he had thought disliked him, making the claim the captain was planning to kill him. They also saw things that weren't there. Some would swear a spider or snake was on them when nothing was there at all. It manifests differently but it's always a fear come to life.”

“So, who poisoned Daniels, and why?” Holmes asked rhetorically.

“Maybe the Goblin isn't real?” I questioned.

“There is no such creature; but there is a man.”

“How do you know?”

“Mud, Watson. A trace of it in the hallway from a large boot. Neither police nor anyone else who was frequent at Daniels. I found it near a window in the next room while you were looking over the body. Daniels, certainly, was not alone; he was shouting at someone.”

“What do you plan to do next?”

“You can return to Baker Street. I need to go to the docks.”

Chapter 9

Martin Hewitt

The Mystery At Davenport House

Autumn 1890

Taking the information from the manager, we made our way back to our lodgings. The rain had lightened, but the hour was late, and Hewitt and I agreed we would continue the investigation after a hardy dinner and a good night's sleep

Early the following morning, Hewitt and I procured a hansom to take us to Putney to Phillias Jackson's lodging: Davenport House. The autumn air had become bitterly cold through the night but by the time we reached Davenport House, the sun was high in the morning sky and some warmth had returned to the air.

Mr Jackson's home was a large three floor house. Hanging outside the house was a sign saying: Room for Let. His lodgings were shared, not his own.

“A further touch of the bizarre, Brett,” remarked Hewitt pointed to the sign.

“Not the kind of accommodation I expected from Mr Jackson,” said I with a nod.

“My thought precisely.” Hewitt raised his large fist and banged on the front door. A bespectacled man with bushy sideburns and slicked back hair answered.

“May I help you?” he asked us.

“My name is Martin Hewitt, I'm an investigator. I'm looking into the disappearance of Phillias Jackson.”

“Has he disappeared?” the man asked.

“A concerned party believes him to be missing. What, pray, can you tell us?”

“Do you have any credentials on you?” the man asked suspiciously. “For all I know you could be anyone.”

“Anyone can be anyone, sir,” said Hewitt as he took out his identification with slight annoyance. The man took it into his hands and examined it thoroughly.

“Very well. I am satisfied,” he responded, handing Hewitt's property back.

“Tell us what you know of Mr. Jackson, while you lead us to his rooms,” Hewitt requested.

The man turned and we followed him inside.

“Mr. Jackson was a businessman, not a very good one, though. He was never too much of a bother to anyone. But he did keep some unruly hours which made some feel uncomfortable.”

“What do you mean by unruly?” I asked as we followed our guide up a narrow staircase.

“Unruly; quite self-explanatory, is it not? Well, that is to say that his work kept him in and out at all hours. In order to not disturb the other lodgers he, for a small fee, did some of his experiments out in the shed.”

“What experiments was he doing in the shed?” Hewitt asked.

“Not entirely sure, tinkerings of some kind.” The man paused. “Mr Jackson said he'd be away some time, so I'm finding it most strange that you are here looking for him.”

The man stopped in front of a door and withdrew some keys. Selecting one, he slid it into the lock. The door opened and we stepped into Mr. Jackson's living quarters. The room was average in size. There was one single window that faced the back of the house through which one could see the shed. A small bed with a trunk at the end of it; a few stacks of books; a desk, cluttered with papers, a pen, and a jar of ink. There was a cabinet with some clothes, and a small washroom as well. Hewitt spent some time wandering around while our guide and I watched.

“When did you last see Mr. Jackson?” Hewitt asked.

“Oh, he's been away a short while. He said something about going to the continent for business.”

“How long ago was that?”

“I suppose two months, maybe three?”

“So you haven't seen him in all that time?” I questioned.

The man shook his head. “But he paid his rent, so I'm not worried as long as he is up-to-date.”

“Did he ever have any visitors here?” Hewitt asked.

The man paused and thought a moment. “A woman,” he said in a low voice. “She'd come around several times a week. I could often hear him speaking to her in his room, but it sounded like they were speaking in foreign gibberish. Is she the one who is worried about him?”

“What can you tell me about her?”

“Oh, not much. I only saw glimpses of her.” He lowered his voice. “But she did stay over with him quite a lot. There's only one kind of woman who will stay with a man without hesitation or care for decency.”

“So she was a lady of the night?” I asked.

“I'm not one to judge,” said the man. “I did tell Mr. Jackson he needed to think about his actions as this was meant to be a respectable lodging. He assured me that he meant no harm, but did tell me that he and this lass had big plans together.”

“Did he ever tell you what these plans were?”

“Afraid not, no.”

“Might you take us to the shed where you said he did other work... tinkerings as you say.”

We followed the man down the stairs and out into the back garden. The shed was a decent size, ten feet by five feet. The man opened the door and a few gardening tools fell out.

“Will you allow us some privacy while I look around?” Hewitt asked. The man looked somewhat disappointed to be discharged so abruptly but agreed and returned to the house.

“What do you make of it, Brett?” he asked me while he perused the interior of the shed.

“Well, it seems that this Mrs. Edwards, I mean Goodtree, is perhaps unrealistically worried. If his landlord isn't worried about the length of time he's been gone, why is she?”