Книга - The Devil’s Due

The Devil’s Due
Bonnie Macbird


After Art in the Blood and Unquiet Spirits, Holmes and Watson are back in the third of Bonnie MacBird’s critically acclaimed Sherlock Holmes Adventures, written in the tradition of Conan Doyle himself. It’s 1890 and the newly famous Sherlock Holmes faces his worst adversary to date – a diabolical villain bent on destroying some of London’s most admired public figures in particularly gruesome ways. A further puzzle is that suicide closely attends each of the murders. As he tracks the killer through vast and seething London, Holmes finds himself battling both an envious Scotland Yard and a critical press as he follows a complex trail from performers to princes, anarchists to aesthetes. But when his brother Mycroft disappears, apparently the victim of murder, even those loyal to Holmes begin to wonder how close to the flames he has travelled. Has Sherlock Holmes himself made a deal with the devil?









THE DEVIL’S DUE

A SHERLOCK HOLMES ADVENTURE

Bonnie MacBird










Copyright (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9)


This book is a new and original work of fiction featuring Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson, and other fictional characters that were first introduced to the world in 1887 by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, all of which are now in the public domain. The characters are used by the author solely for the purpose of story-telling and not as trademarks. This book is independently authored and published, and is not sponsored or endorsed by, or associated in any way with, Conan Doyle Estate, Ltd. or any other party claiming trademark rights in any of the characters in the Sherlock Holmes canon.

COLLINS CRIME CLUB

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Bonnie MacBird 2019

All rights reserved

Bonnie MacBird asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover images © Bonnie MacBird (figures); Shutterstock.com (http://www.Shutterstock.com) (all other images)

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008195076

Ebook Edition © October 2019 ISBN: 9780008195090

Version: 2019-08-22




Dedication (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9)


For my cousin, Chris Simpson


Contents

Cover (#u18879425-b670-5400-ab9d-7f6f9968f731)

Title Page (#u005cb3ec-f7d8-519f-9a23-5fcf65b78184)

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

PART ONE – LONDON

1 Fog

2 221B

3 Attack!

4 Devil and Hyde

5 Brotherly Love

PART TWO – GATHERING THE TROOPS

6 The Greater Goodwins

7 The Spice of Life

8 The Lady

9 A Question of Taste

10 The Snake and Drum

PART THREE – ALLIES AND OTHERS

11 Heffie

12 The Dogged Detective

13 The Baguette Brigade

14 Death at the Opera

15 A Voice Stilled

16 Italian Air

PART FOUR – SETBACK

17 Snap

18 Helping Hands

19 Pack of Foxes

20 Might Makes Right

PART FIVE – BACKWATER

21 Cat and Mouse

22 One Flask Closer

23 Zebras

24 Fabric of Doubt

25 Deep Waters

26 Into the Mud

PART SIX – OUT OF THE FRYING PAN

27 Aesthetes and Anarchists

28 Conflagration

29 Embers

30 The Baker Street Bazaar

31 The Bizarre

32 221B

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading … (#u82515d59-7d6d-55a6-8367-3d822feadd18)

Also by Bonnie MacBird

About the Publisher




Prologue (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9)


On a recent late September afternoon in London, as torrential downpours skittered down the bow window of my flat on Chiltern Street, I stood looking at the grey wall of water battering the vista below. Off to the right, across Marylebone Road, umbrellas crowded the Baker Street Station tube entrance, collapsing like evening blossoms as their owners, clad in puffy jackets, windbreakers and trainers, dashed into the building.

Those doors first opened more than a hundred and fifty years ago.

I blinked and imagined it was 1890, that same station, but beneath the jumble of umbrellas was a sea of top hats, bowlers and a few flowered bonnets, well-cut suits and the occasional long dress trailing across the muddy pavement.

Deep below street level, noisy black engines belched steam and thundered through the darkness at terrifying speeds. Some superstitious Londoners would not venture into the depths. Who knew what devilish vapours might be swirling around down there?

In 1890, London was the reigning centre of culture and commerce. But even as we romanticize those late Victorian times, we must also acknowledge that this magnificent city had her woes. What astonished me about the tale I discovered that day – inscribed in neat penmanship on a faded schoolboy notebook – was how little things had actually changed. Crime, yellow journalism, mob thinking, homelessness, murder, police brutality, fear of immigrants, dark politics – all in full flower then – and now.

But who better to slice cleanly through the shifting morass of murder, chaos and moral ambiguity than the remarkable Sherlock Holmes? It was time for a dose of his clarity, courage, and intellectual rigour.

So, once again, I sat down with the battered tin box which had been given to me by a mysterious woman from the British Library. What might be revealed today? I opened the box and immediately my eyes were drawn to a glint of gold. A bright coin had been glued to a thick envelope sticking out from the others. I pulled it out to have a look.

The coin was old, two hundred years or more. What could it mean? Its date was long before Watson and Holmes walked the London streets. A small voice inside me said that the time was right to open the package to which this coin had adhered.

As I removed the string tied round the musty envelope, a playing card fell out. On the back was a faded design in blue. I flipped it over. It was no ordinary playing card, but a Tarot card – bearing the image of a monster with a remarkably frightening visage – horns, forked tongue and a lean, muscular body. The Devil.

And then a strange thing happened.

As I stared at it, the power suddenly went off in my flat, silencing a Vivaldi violin concerto mid-arpeggio, and plunging me into near darkness. Outside, the rainy dusk was a dim glow.

I am not the superstitious type. I got up, lit a few candles, and sat back down. I gently eased the dog-eared notebook from the envelope. On the cover, The Devil’s Due, was inscribed in Dr Watson’s distinctive, neat handwriting.

Consuming this by candlelight seemed entirely appropriate. Here is what I read.

—Bonnie MacBird

London, April 2019




PART ONE (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9)

LONDON (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9)


‘Sir, if you wish to have a just notion of the magnitude of this city, you must not be satisfied with seeing its great streets and squares but must survey the innumerable little lanes and courts. It is not in the showy evolutions of buildings, but in the multiplicity of human habitations which are crowded together that the wonderful immensity of London consists.’

—Samuel Johnson




CHAPTER 1 (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9)

Fog (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9)


London could be heaven; London could be hell. I thought I knew the city well following more than eight years of adventures with my friend Sherlock Holmes, but the extremes of my adopted home had never revealed themselves to me so clearly as they did during the adventure I am about to relate.

It was in November of 1890 that Holmes faced one of the worst villains of his career, a monster responsible for a series of high profile, grotesque murders that both terrified and titillated the city. These violent deaths were strung, like so many blood-soaked pearls on a devil’s necklace.

Only Sherlock Holmes could have traced the gossamer thread that tied together anarchists and artists, politicians and prostitutes, grocers, grafters, and even royalty. But in the process, he was nearly consumed himself by the fires of hell. Or in this case, St James’s.

My name is Dr John Watson. At the time of this tale, I had been happily married to our former client Mary Morstan for close to two years, and had resumed my medical practice, now in Paddington. One icy Tuesday morning in November, Mary and I lingered in our quiet dining-room over coffee and the newspapers.

The Russian ’flu, which had kept me monotonously occupied was at last waning and no one awaited me in my surgery. The grandfather clock ticked, crisp toast cooled in its silver rack, and time stretched on. I poured myself a third cup of coffee. It had been weeks since I had seen my friend Sherlock Holmes.

Meanwhile the newspapers reported that just outside our windows, London seethed under the tumult of a rising tide of immigrants from France, Italy, and Ireland, shuddered with terror as anarchists (mainly French) set off bombs, groaned under the weight of poverty and a rising crime rate, and twisted in circles over government intrigue, royal scandal, industrialism, and ‘The Woman Question’. At the same time, the city glittered with new operas and theatrical galas, and art, music and entertainment lit up her evenings.

I flung down my paper and stared at the rain outside our window.

‘Listen to this, John,’ said Mary. ‘There’s a newly installed “Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police” – now there’s a title – named Titus Billings who “promises to make London safe from the hordes of foreign criminals flooding our city”.’

I sighed. ‘Hmm. I am sure there are a few home-grown ones as well.’

‘There is more. He’s planning to do this by “arming the police, putting more boots on the street, and banishing all amateurs from criminal investigations”.’ She handed me her pages in disgust. ‘Looks an awful fellow. You don’t suppose he means Mr Sherlock Holmes?’

I stared at the image of Titus Billings on the page. He was an imperious, military type with a thick black moustache and fierce eyes. It was a case of instant dislike. ‘He’d be a fool if so,’ said I. It would not surprise me if Holmes had already tangled with the man.

‘Perhaps a visit to Mr Holmes is in order?’

‘I am sure he is quite busy, Mary. He is no doubt behind the scenes on that strange Anson case.’

‘The man found drowned in his bed? An impossible death!’ She shuddered.

‘Yes, an odd one,’ said I musing at the image of a wealthy man found dry, clean, and in his nightclothes, upright in his bed, yet drowned, a ‘Devil’ Tarot card in his hand. The reports had been intriguing. Mary was staring at me. ‘Well, yes, it has been quite the season for unusual murders,’ I added.

‘And Danforth, that paper magnate, stabbed to death with a letter opener,’ she urged, regarding me closely. ‘That is an odd one!’

I laughed at the irony of the crime. ‘Oh, indeed,’ I said. Holmes was no doubt enjoying that case.

‘You share Mr Holmes’s morbid humour, John!’ she chided, but I knew she was as fond of Holmes as I. ‘You know, he may have run into trouble there,’ she added. ‘Take a look.’ She laid The Illustrated Police Gazette in front of me. There, on that lurid rag was the headline ‘False Conjurer Sherlock Holmes Fails Spectacularly!’

‘False conjurer? What on earth?’

I quickly read the article, and as I did so, felt a rising anger against the writer, one Gabriel Zanders. He hinted that Sherlock Holmes had ‘an unhealthy affinity for blood and death’, had ‘attempted to misdirect the police in the manner of a carnival magician’, and ‘caused the arrest the wrong fellow in the spectacular Danforth murder’. It ended with: ‘What dark motives are hidden behind that sallow, sinister face? Who can understand the mind of this inhuman automaton who haunts London?’ An unflattering illustration of Holmes appeared next to the article.

Mary began clearing the dishes. She lingered near my chair, looking at the article.

‘John, what about a short holiday? Take some time off. Perhaps go see Mr Holmes. You are the wind under his wings, I think.’

‘The ballast in his hold, more accurately,’ said I, smiling at the image of my friend as a fast moving though slightly unsteady ship. ‘But if I am to take a holiday,’ said I, ‘it must be with you, Mary. I am worried about that cough.’

‘The Trowbridges have suggested a fortnight’s visit to their Cotswold manor, John,’ said Mary.

‘Fresh air. Good idea,’ I said, my heart sinking.

She laughed. ‘Oh, John, you despise the Trowbridges! I will go there, and you go to Mr Holmes. Do not argue.’ She smiled and kissed me on the cheek. ‘We shall both return refreshed.’

What man has ever had a more understanding wife!

With the notice of a holiday posted on my surgery door, and a word to a colleague who would take up any urgent cases, I was off within the hour.




CHAPTER 2 (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9)

221B (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9)


It was thus with considerable pleasure and a free conscience that I found myself later that morning in the sitting-room of 221B Baker Street, awaiting the appearance of my dear friend. Whether he would welcome an extended visit, I had no idea.

The room, as usual, was awash in newspapers, dirty ashtrays, and odd items. The chemistry table held a series of jars containing what appeared to be human fingers, and on one table was an elephant’s tusk, stained brown at the pointed end.

How I missed our close association!

I noticed that several newspapers including two weeks’ worth of The Illustrated Police Gazette had been laid out on the dining table, their pages folded back to specific articles. I was reading the third, tirades much like the one Mary had shown me, with mounting alarm when I was startled by a voice inches behind my left ear.

‘Dear Watson, are you finding the Gazette edifying?’

I started and turned to see my friend, who must have entered the room on a cushion of air, for I had heard nothing.

‘Holmes! You gave me such a fright!’

‘Apparently I am having quite an effect on any number of people,’ said he with a laugh. He was still in nightclothes, his hair uncombed, and a cigarette already in hand. ‘Coffee, please, Mrs Hudson,’ he called out over his shoulder. Then to me, ‘You will join me, Watson?’

‘Thank you, no. I have been up for hours. My God, these articles! This Gabriel Zanders, fellow—’

‘Disregard him. He is a muckraking master of schadenfreude. He’s first to the scene of any crime and loves nothing more than to publish lurid details even before the family is notified. I took him to task for this in front of the man who happened to be his editor. He has been going after me ever since.’

‘I am sorry to hear it. He seems bent on doing you harm.’

Holmes shrugged dismissively, then turned his focus to me. He smiled. ‘You have been busy of late, but you have decided on a holiday. What brings you here, instead of to some pastoral paradise with Mary?’

‘Do not make me ask how you deduced this!’

‘Perfectly simple. You have discarded your professional costume. You lack the expensive polished boots with which you attempt to dazzle your new patients, but which cause you pain in your left big toe, and the rather ostentatious gold watch which announces that you are more well established than you actually are. Instead, you are in your old suit and your comfortable brogues, which have served you well on our many wanderings, and with that old timepiece of your late brother’s, also gold but rather worn, which provides sentimental value but conveys less prestige.’

‘All right, Holmes. I know that you— Wait! The left big toe?’

‘Remember I have visited you in your surgery, Watson. I have noted your very different attire, shoes and watch, which I have never seen you wear elsewhere, and have drawn an obvious conclusion. In those terribly shiny boots which complete your impressive costume, I discerned a small protrusion in the area of your left big toe, and having seen your feet free of encumbrances on a number of occasions while you lived here on Baker Street, I am aware of a slight deformity which makes shoe-fit difficult. Those you are wearing now you had stretched by the cobbler on Paddington Street in March four years ago, and you have since worn them for some time, and on some very long rambles.’

I sighed. It was simple observation, coupled with that prodigious memory. ‘Really, Holmes, you risk overcrowding that brain attic of which you are so proud.’

Holmes laughed. ‘You need not worry, Watson.’

‘Though it has served you well. I read you were being considered for Queen’s honours!’

‘And today dismissed as a fraud!’ exclaimed Holmes. ‘Or rather a false conjurer. Ah, the press. It is as worth riling oneself over them as it is the weather.’

‘Today was a particularly vitriolic attack, Holmes. Were you wrong about the Danforth case?’

Holmes yawned. ‘Of course not. Do not believe all that you read, Watson,’ said he. ‘The press seeks to create heroes and villains, angels and devils, where mere mortals exist.’ He took a deep draw on his cigarette and sank into the basket chair.

Mrs Hudson entered wordlessly and set down a coffee service on the table, not bothering to remove the newspapers laid there. With a friendly nod to me and a look of remonstrance at Holmes, she exited in silence.

I had meanwhile glanced at two other Zanders articles. I shook my head in anger.

‘Good old Watson. Like most people I see that you are drawn like a moth to a flame to a trifling bit of opprobrious news.’ He looked at me closely. ‘And you are transparently outraged!’ This appeared to amuse him.

‘Here’s another headline: “Baker Street Braggart Sherlock Holmes fails spectacularly.”

‘I know. Let me apply some coffee to my fogged cerebrum.’ He poured himself a cup and once again sank into the chair.

I drew the offending paper from the table and sat opposite him in my old chair. ‘Shall I read it aloud?’ I asked.

‘No, thank you. I have tasted those bitter spirits an hour ago.’

I turned my eyes to the article and finished it with increasing revulsion. I looked up. Holmes was lighting a second cigarette to accompany his coffee.

‘What a ghastly business, this Sebastian Danforth murder!’ said I. ‘A well-respected MP and esteemed philanthropist who made his fortune in paper, stabbed sixteen times with a dull letter opener by his own son!’

‘Seventeen times. And yes, a son did it.’

‘This article says you named the wrong person.’ I pointed to the fourth paragraph and read aloud ‘“The erroneous evidence provided by that deranged poseur Sherlock Holmes” – “deranged poseur”, great heavens!’

‘Your indignation should be directed at the word “erroneous”, Watson, not “deranged poseur”. My evidence was flawless and damning. The eldest son Charles Danforth was clearly the culprit. There were a number of indications, but a tiny splatter of blood on the murderer’s watch chain was conclusive.’

‘Well, this Titus Billings fellow disagrees vehemently. Why? And who is he?’

‘Billings is an unknown quantity, late of the foreign office and has been given some kind of sovereignty over at the Yard that I cannot fathom,’ he remarked casually – then vigorously exhaled a plume of smoke. I noted his foot tapping silently.

‘Tell me of the case, Holmes.’

Holmes leaned back in his chair. ‘This murderous son, Charles Danforth, who was initially gaoled on my evidence, believed his father had suddenly written him out of his will. Charles was already known to be unstable, and upon hearing this news – false, as it turns out – a shouting match ensued, with the son cursing like a fiend at his father. Shortly after, the old man was discovered, expiring from multiple stab wounds. Upon my evidence, Charles was arrested, but “new evidence”, to which I was not privy, was submitted, supposedly implicating Sebastian Danforth’s younger son. As of last night, Charles was running free. His younger brother – quite innocent – was charged with the crime and waits in gaol. But it will all be set right soon.’

‘I should hope so,’ said I, ‘if nothing more than to clear your name.’

‘My reputation is nothing in the grand scheme of things,’ said Holmes. ‘But this gross error allowed a monster to roam free throughout London last night.’

I was astonished at this last. ‘It is unlike you, Holmes, to be sleeping late when there are such doings afoot.’

Mrs Hudson entered with a tray of sandwiches. ‘Mr Holmes has been in his bed for less than two hours, Doctor.’ Turning to her lodger, she remonstrated, ‘You endanger your health, Mr Holmes, with all this gallivanting about at night.’

She poured me a coffee without asking. Handing it to me, she added, ‘Just see how tired he is!’

Holmes sighed. ‘I located the villain and communicated his whereabouts to Inspector Lestrade some four hours ago. This worthy endeavour involved a rather dangerous chase at the docks, and a visit to a brothel in the guise of a doctor.’

‘Remarkable! I take back my remonstrance. Apologies, Holmes.’

He smiled, but the smile dropped as he added, ‘I have had to proceed unofficially, as I was blocked from the case by this new man, Billings. But Lestrade has the facts in hand now, and no doubt the murderer as well. I am confident he will see things through to conviction.’

Once more my friend had brought justice to bear, while giving all credit to the local police. His selflessness was one of the things about him I most admired.

‘Holmes, what a remarkable night’s work. You are to be congratulated! Perhaps you may want to rest. If so, I am happy to stay and read until you arise. We might enjoy a meal out later?’

‘If you wish, Watson. But I shall first pay a visit to the murderer’s rather delicate wife. Constance Danforth will surely be relieved at her husband’s capture. I interviewed them both, separately of course, and perceived that she was terrified of him. Although she would not admit it, I saw evidence of burns along her arms, as if from a cigarette.’

‘Good God!’

Holmes got up and began to stir the embers of the fire, which had nearly gone out.

‘While one cannot resurrect her late father-in-law, I am convinced that this investigation will at least serve to save the life of that innocent young woman. How much time have you free?’

‘A fortnight. Mary has gone—’

‘Splendid! Your room is vacant, should you care to stay.’

He began to add coals to the dwindling fire. I found myself uncommonly pleased and surprised at the extremity of my emotion.

‘I shall retrieve my luggage, then—’ I began, when a sudden bang drew my eyes to the door, and a heavyset, muscular man of about thirty-five exploded into the room.




CHAPTER 3 (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9)

Attack! (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9)


My first impression was of a whirling black coat and silk hat, and a silver-tipped walking stick. But it was the man’s reddened face – wild-eyed with fury and venom, his eyes nearly popping – that froze me in alarm. Spotting my friend kneeling by the fire, the intruder crossed the room in three bounding steps, stick raised to strike.

I had only time to cry out, ‘Holmes!’

Just as the fiend was about to smite my friend with what threatened to be a fatal blow, Holmes leapt up, and with the grace of the fencing master he was, whirled and blocked the descending stick with the fireplace poker in his left hand. It clanged like a church bell. In one continuous move, Holmes dealt a hard right to the man’s jaw. There was a sharp crack as his fist connected, and the strapping fellow dropped like a stone onto the bear rug in front of the fire. There he lay still, face down and pressed against the great beast’s grinning countenance.

It was as if Holmes had eyes in the back of his own head, so smooth had been his remarkable defence. He now stood, gazing calmly at his attacker. With one slippered foot, he nudged the shoulder of the unconscious man, rolling him onto his back.

‘Charles Danforth,’ he remarked, as though commenting on some fruit selection at an outdoor market. ‘Truly one of the most vicious murderers London has seen in some time.’ Holmes looked up at me. ‘It took tremendous strength and rage to kill his father with a dull letter opener, Watson. A ghastly way to bring about an end.’ He rubbed his forehead tiredly. ‘Though I did think Lestrade would have had him in custody by now.’

Just then the wiry little police detective and two constables burst through the door, Mrs Hudson behind them.

‘Mr Holmes! Are you all right?’ cried Lestrade. Spotting the man on the floor, the policeman exhaled in relief. ‘Well, of course you are, sir. He slipped us once, but we got onto his intentions, and it was a race to your house. If only I had come in time!’

‘Yes, well, you are here now,’ said Holmes. ‘This man’s intemperate attack, Lestrade, can only bolster your case.’

‘Oh yes, Mr Holmes. No question. Take him away, boys.’

Lestrade’s constables hoisted the unconscious form of Charles Danforth and conveyed him out the door.

Lestrade turned to Holmes. ‘Excellent work, Mr Holmes, and once again the Yard is grateful to you. And between us, sir, I am pleased that you, rather than Mr Billings, have brought the villain to heel. I will make sure that everyone knows.’

‘Please do not do so, Lestrade. I wish you to take the credit.’

‘But Mr Holmes, I—’

‘I must insist.’

Lestrade looked relieved. ‘As you see fit, Mr Holmes. You were right about it all, including his poor wife, may she rest in peace. True about the burns on her arms. Cigarette, I would say. Oh … Charles Danforth is a beast!’

Holmes had frozen in horror. ‘His wife? Dead?’

Lestrade nodded wearily.

My friend was galvanized. ‘How did she die? I advised you to post a guard to Constance Danforth’s house the moment I heard of this man’s release! Did you fail to do so?’

Lestrade shook his head. ‘We followed your instructions, Mr Holmes, and posted a guard directly. She was alive when we did so. ’Tweren’t her husband, though. She killed herself, the poor little dear, thinking her husband had gotten away with murder and would be back.’

‘When? How?’

‘Naught we could have done. Found by her maid last night. I was informed just after I saw you a few hours ago. That would make it perhaps around midnight?’

‘How, I ask?’

‘Poison. There was a note.’

‘I must see it.’

‘I’ll have it brought to you straight away.’

In a moment, the police had departed with the unconscious criminal. I closed the door behind them and turned my attention to my friend. Holmes had sunk motionless in the basket chair, head in his hands.

This reaction was far more than the sudden collapse of energy I had witnessed often at the end of a challenging case. The woman’s suicide had hit him hard; clearly he had been unprepared for it.

I sat opposite him and waited.

‘Holmes?’ I whispered after some minutes had passed. ‘You asked for her to be guarded. What more could you have done? Surely she felt safe with police protection.’

‘I should have gone there myself.’

‘You could not have predicted.’

‘She was delicate. Frightened. Despairing. She had loved her father-in-law deeply, and he had been, I inferred, her protector.’

‘You are a detective, not an alienist. Or a fortune-teller. How could you have foreseen a suicide?’

Holmes did not answer.

‘Instead, you went after the brute and succeeded in locating him.’

Holmes nodded but said nothing, sinking further into black rumination.

After a few minutes, I informed him that I’d return in an hour with my things for an extended stay, and that I expected to entice him to a walk or a meal if he was not sleeping off the effects of the night. ‘Doctor’s orders, Holmes. Whatever lies ahead, it is time for recovery, not remonstrance.’

He said nothing, and I left, determined to return as quickly as possible.




CHAPTER 4 (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9)

Devil and Hyde (#ue6c06a5a-9a96-541d-b28f-564f08d3d4c9)


An hour later, I returned. The rain had abated for the first time in days, and I convinced my friend that a ramble in Hyde Park would offer refreshment. We usually frequented Regent’s Park but today I suggested a change of scenery.

We set off at a brisk pace and were soon strolling in the southern end of the park along the Serpentine. I hoped this serene, tree-lined vista would soothe my companion’s jangled nerves. Who knew how long we might enjoy the bright sunlight, with rainclouds scudding across the sky. The chill was bracing.

I glanced at his thin figure, bundled in a long black overcoat and blue scarf, his collar turned up for warmth, as he walked beside me in silence, head down. I had forgotten the intensity of those black clouds which periodically rolled in to darken his outlook. He seemed oblivious to the gleaming waterway and the brilliant golds and oranges of the foliage.

‘Holmes,’ I ventured. ‘What of a dinner tonight at Simpson’s? Some roast beef, your favourite, followed by perhaps an opera? Faust, by some French composer, is on just now.’

‘The composer is Charles Gounod – and I have seen it already. Watson, you despise opera. I am not in the humour for conversation. Is it not enough that I agreed to accompany you on this pointless meandering?’

‘It is hardly pointless,’ said I.

‘Then what is the point?’ he asked crossly.

‘The point is to breathe, to take in nature, and to reset the mind. Look at those trees!’

Above us the canopy of golds, greens and hints of orange glowed like stained glass, sparkling intermittently as the bright sun peeked through.

He glanced up at the sky. ‘It will rain again soon. Let us return to Baker Street. I neglected to bring my umbrella.’

He turned left and headed sharply north, in the direction of Speakers’ Corner. We had been out for less than an hour.

‘Holmes, shall we not concentrate on the good news? Those Queen’s honours under discussion? Not a knighthood, do you think?’

It was as though I’d thrown vitriol on his favourite coat. ‘Watson! You know me better than that!’ His vehemence surprised me.

‘It is one thing to refrain from seeking accolades, but can you not at least appreciate them when they are offered sincerely?’ I said. ‘Surely this would bring in more clientele.’

‘Anonymity better serves my work. That journalist simply needed a story,’ he said bitterly. ‘Today I am reviled. Neither notice means anything.’

‘Well, what of this Gabriel Zanders fellow? I am genuinely concerned, Holmes.’

‘He is creative, to be sure. He has made it his business to vilify me, alternately deriding my abilities, and ascribing to them some dark origins.’

‘Dark origins? But this is laughable, Holmes!’

‘To the rational, it is laughable.’

‘What does he mean, dark origins?’

‘To the gullible among his readers, and those are the majority, he implies my powers are otherworldly, devilish. For his more educated readers, he implies that I have deep ties to the criminal community. Either explanation is apparently easier to swallow than my use of scientific method, keen observation and hard work.’

‘Indeed. And the occasional flash of intuition, Holmes.’

‘One cannot count on that. In any case, Zanders is to be ignored. Even if he is having me followed. As indeed he is, at this very moment.’ He nodded behind us.

I looked about but saw no one.

Holmes stalked on. I had difficulty keeping up. While notorious for not caring about public opinion, Holmes knew better than to inflame a reporter. Dark clouds had moved in rapidly to blacken the sky, and no less the mood of my friend. He scowled and picked up his already furious pace.

‘Are you trying to shake him?’ I asked, referring to his supposed tail.

‘That will be difficult in the park. Just to exhaust him, perhaps.’

‘Well, you are exhausting me!’

We continued a moment in silence. I was growing a bit winded.

‘You are out of training, Watson.’ He picked up his pace as if to challenge me further. ‘Rather more tiresome than Zanders is this fool Titus Billings at Scotland Yard!’

‘He does have some peculiar notions,’ I offered. ‘Slow down, please. In any case, you enjoy a challenge, Holmes.’

He said nothing, and we continued in silence. He looked no less grim. The walk was not having the effect I had hoped.

‘Holmes, perhaps I join you at an inconvenient time.’

‘All I need is an interesting case, and the freedom to pursue it unimpeded!’ he exclaimed. ‘Nothing more!’ He glanced my way again and, with a look of contrition, added, ‘I am sorry, dear fellow. No, you are not inconvenient. Rather, in fact, most welcome. I might find bad humour overtaking me if you were not here.’

‘Bad humour? You?’ I laughed. Holmes favoured me with one of his quick smiles. We proceeded in silence. Our relative peace did not last long. As we drew nearer to the northern end of Hyde Park, I began to discern the sound of a crowd, chanting something unintelligible in unison. We approached the fabled Speakers’ Corner, and a loud and melodious voice pierced the chill November air, followed by another unison crowd response.

We came upon a makeshift dais of several wooden boxes on which stood a tall, muscular figure garbed in the long black coat, wide-brimmed hat, and white collar of a pastor. His was a handsome face, rather more sun-darkened than one associates with a London man of the cloth (but perhaps he had served his church in southern climes, I thought). Despite his sober clothing, there was something of the salesman to the fellow.

His words enthralled a highly animated crowd of nearly one hundred people. ‘We must give up our vanity, give up our greed, give up our lust,’ he exhorted. ‘Because the Devil is always near. We must be on the lookout. For the Devil walks among us. Who walks among us?’

‘The Devil walks among us,’ responded the crowd.

‘Who walks among us?’ he shouted.

‘The Devil walks among us!’ the group responded, louder this time. I paused to listen, fascinated with the hypnotic effect this man was having upon the crowd. ‘We must be on our guard,’ insisted the object of their attention. ‘We must seek him out and destroy him. Frighten him with your voices. Louder now! Where does the Devil walk?’

‘The Devil walks among us!’ shouted the crowd.

This must be the kind of ‘tent preacher’ I had read of, roaming the American South. A rabble-rouser, to my mind.

Holmes stiffened and I followed his gaze to a garishly dressed young man, clean-shaven, with slicked-back hair and an eager, hungry face. He had arrived on the periphery of the crowd opposite us, scanning the scene. As I watched, he took out a small notebook and pen. He glanced our way.

‘Holmes, is that—?’

‘Zanders? Yes.’ Holmes turned to regard the speaker with a strange expression, perhaps irony. He shrugged. ‘Come along, Watson, we burn daylight.’

‘Look for him always. And what must we be?’ cried the speaker.

‘On our guard!’ shouted the crowd.

I could not tear myself away. Something about this scene and this speaker utterly fascinated me. I grasped Holmes’s arm. ‘Look at those white lines around his fingers! Many rings, I should think. What preacher would adorn himself so?’ I felt sure Holmes would compliment me on my keen observation.

‘None, Watson. His name is James Fardwinkle and he runs a pickpocketing ring out of Holborn. I have had him arrested twice, but he is something of a greased hog. The police cannot take hold. Let us move along.’

I laughed. ‘Indeed! Look—!’ A young boy wove through the crowds, pausing to artfully extract a billfold from a pocket. He began to approach us but then, noting my challenging stare, he changed course. In a moment, he dipped into a woman’s reticule, removing several pound notes.

‘Stop, thief!’ I shouted.

‘Watson!’ Holmes whispered.

The speaker swivelled to glare at me directly, his face melting into a theatrical portrayal of hurt innocence. But as he recognized Holmes standing next to me, a transformation came over it, which sent a chill down my spine.

‘That was not wise,’ murmured Holmes, looking down and adjusting his Homburg to cover his face.

‘There’s a policeman right over there.’ I gestured to a constable standing off to one side, presumably monitoring the situation. ‘Fardwinkle can hardly weasel out now. Police!’ I cried.

‘We must be off now,’ said Holmes, seizing my arm with an iron pinch.

‘Will you know the Devil when you see him?’ shouted Fardwinkle. The preacher was staring at me, or rather us. He raised an arm and pointed it at Holmes. ‘I can. I do. The Devil is standing here among us.’

The crowd turned to look at us. Their gaze focused on Holmes. Admittedly, his gaunt pallor, intensity and swirling black coat were not at that moment helping to portray the angel of justice I knew him to be.

I would not let this situation intimidate us. ‘You are an utter charlatan!’ I found myself shouting at Fardwinkle. ‘Watch your pockets, ladies and gentlemen!’ Turning to Holmes, I said, ‘How can this crowd be so gullible?’

Holmes shook his head but did not release my arm.

‘There he is. The Devil. The Devil in the flesh! You know what to do!’ The speaker continued to point at Holmes.

This was an outrage. We were in the centre of modern London. The Devil, indeed!

‘This is Sherlock Holmes, you fool!’ I shouted. ‘The detective.’

‘Oh, dear God,’ murmured Holmes. He yanked my arm, none too gently. ‘Stop talking.’

‘Sherlock Holmes, who sends innocent men to the gallows!’ shouted Fardwinkle in full preacher voice. ‘Charles Danforth! Just this week, an innocent man, freed only yesterday by the will of God. Sherlock Holmes, who has been taken by the Devil. The Devil is Sherlock Holmes!’

A woman moved up to him and batted at him with her handbag. ‘The Devil!’ she announced, nodding.

‘Not me, madam,’ he said gently, as he sidestepped her, only to find two men blocking his way. ‘Watson, run.’

I caught a glimpse of Gabriel Zanders across the crowd, regarding the unfolding drama with eager excitement. The crowd closed in and Holmes and I were separated. A leering man leaned in to me and shouted, ‘Who are you who walks with the Devil?’ Two more moved in beside him, giving me their hardest looks.

‘My name is John Watson. I am a doctor, you idiot. Now, let me pass.’

Ahead of me, Holmes was engulfed by murmuring congregants. Only then did I realize the true danger of the situation.

They began to push. The man near me knocked the hat from my head. I bent down to scoop it up but upon rising could no longer see Holmes.

From the dais, the speaker continued to excite the crowd. ‘The Devil and his disciple walk among us. You know what to do. The Devil! The Devil!’

Suddenly I felt the press of the furious crowd. The situation had ratcheted from zero to lethal in seconds.

‘Destroy the Devil! Destroy the Devil!’

A woman slapped at my face and a man tried to wrench my arm behind my back.

I yanked free, then caught a brief glimpse of Holmes, who was attempting to fend off grasping hands without hurting anyone. Above it all, Fardwinkle continued to shout, waving his preacher’s hat towards my friend, a malicious smile splitting his sunburnt face.

Two men seized my arms but, with a sudden heave, I freed myself and pushed through the crowd towards Holmes, inadvertently bumping into a young woman. ‘Pardon me, madam!’ I said, noting the beautiful young face fixed on mine. Her hand snaked into my pocket and she smiled in triumph. I pulled away in alarm, before remembering I carried nothing in that pocket. More people intervened, and I pushed through to my friend.

Holmes and I exchanged a look, locked arms, and rammed our way free. Before us was the path, and beyond that, Marble Arch, and the safety of others.

We ran.

A couple of the men followed hard on our heels, but the policeman’s whistle sounded, echoed by another, and our pursuers gave up the chase. We did not slow down until we were safe among the milling crowds near Marble Arch.

It was only when the drizzle became a sudden downpour that I realized I had lost my umbrella in the mob at Speakers’ Corner. ‘Devil take it,’ I said in exasperation. ‘My umbrella!’

‘Devil did take it indeed, Watson.’

We took shelter under the arch, but the rain slanted in to pelt us, nevertheless. Water poured off our hats and shoulders as crowds of businessmen hurried past under their umbrellas without a thought. We were back in modern London. Holmes and I eyed each other for one tense moment, then … burst out laughing.

‘You do look a touch satanic,’ I said, eyeing the rain dripping from Holmes’s black Homburg.

‘Apparently so, Watson.’

‘What’s this?’ I had put my hands in my pockets against the cold when I discovered a small card in the left one. I pulled it out. It had a strange, ornate blue and white pattern on one side. I turned it over.

‘Look at this!’ I exclaimed. ‘A young woman in the crowd – she must have placed it there.’

For there, in my hand, was a Tarot card, with a leering, horned figure, ornately drawn in black and white and blood red. The Devil!





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/bonnie-macbird/the-devil-s-due/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.