The Strange Case of Eliza Doolittle Page 11

  “Good lad.”

  Charlie bounded off among the tombs, leaving us alone.

  “Well, gentlemen, it looks like we’re in for a bit of a wait. Now we can talk, Mr. Holmes. There’s shelter beneath the trees.”

  “I’m afraid not, Inspector. I deem it essential that we depart from this spot with all due expedition,” said Holmes.

  “We can’t leave the scene of a shooting. And we still need to learn this boy-o’s identity.”

  “We can learn all we need to know by simple observation. Watson, let me direct your attention in particular to the young man’s wardrobe. But this is of more immediate concern.” He reached into the corpse’s shirtfront and lifted out a medallion hung round his neck. I had noticed it before, but did not assign it any importance. “Santa Rusulia, patron saint of Palermo, in Sicily.”

  “We knew he was Italian,” Newcomen reminded him.

  “Yes, but did you not observe that your young grave-digger wore the same medallion? It was hanging from his neck while he leaned over the body. When Charlie—or I should say Carlo—returns, he will neither be alone nor with the police. We are not equipped to deal with a gang of these men. I only hope we are not being watched now.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Further debate was moot. “If we make for the tree line to the west, we’ll come upon the railway,” said Newcomen. We began to move.

  “I would suggest we remove our shoes,” said Holmes. “Make it harder for our foes to track us.”

  Were there any more watchers in the trees, the sight of three old men in their stocking feet snaking their way single file through the wet grass among the graves must have moved them to laughter. We were fortunate enough to face no further opposition. Holmes and I were soon drying our toes in the station bar, sealed inside from the rain. The sign above the bar proclaimed “Spirits served here” in tongue-in-cheek fashion, but we contented ourselves with tea and toast. After the inspector made a couple of phone calls, he joined us. “I’ve called the Yard to recover the body,” he said.

  “They will not find it,” Holmes answered. He stirred his tea absently.

  “Always darkest with Mr. Holmes,” chuckled the inspector. “Is this what you wanted to meet about? Your telegram only mentioned a case from the past.”

  “I wired you because you’re the Yard’s foremost authority on Edward Hyde.”

  The inspector blanched. “Why blacken the day with that name?”

  “Because I fear he has returned.”

  A curious look came into Newcomen’s eye. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. Then it seemed he arrived at some resolution. “I can set your fears to rest on that score,” he said. “Edward Hyde is dead.”

  “Dead?” It hit Holmes like a hammer blow. “Whence comes this news?”

  “I saw him myself in the cabinet of Dr. Henry Jekyll, lying on his back, with his limbs curled up grotesquely above him, as if he were some sort of insect. He had taken—or been given—a massive dose of poison. It was August . . . the fifth, I think. Eighteen-eighty-five.”

  The news obviously caught Sherlock Holmes unawares, a position as repugnant to him as it was unaccustomed. His pride had always been rooted in superior knowledge. He drew back stiffly in his chair. “I was never informed,” he said. It was meant as censure.

  “No . . . er, the public weren’t supposed to know,” Newcomen answered uncomfortably. “Sir Edmund forbade us from telling anyone. Anyone at all. We hoped then that we could lure Henry Jekyll out of hiding, if he were still alive. But it’s twenty-five years ago now. Jekyll never reappeared, Sir Edmund is in his grave, and we are in our dotage.”

  “You’re certain it was Hyde?” Holmes asked sharply. The revelation had sorely wounded his amour propre.

  “The body was identified by the lawyer Mr. Utterson and Jekyll’s butler. Both men had had dealings with Hyde when alive.”

  “So we know Hyde is dead,” I concluded.

  Holmes gave me a look of pure vinegar. “We know a man identified as Hyde is dead.”

  “You think Utterson and the butler lied?” asked Newcomen, incredulous. “To protect Edward Hyde?”

  “They may have lied to protect Jekyll. Who by all accounts did have some reason to protect Hyde.”

  “Who is—or who was—Jekyll?” I asked.

  Holmes clapped his hands together. “A question for the ages, Watson. Dr. Henry Jekyll. Paragon of respectability. Pillar of the community. Friend of the great. But he was also somehow a patron of Edward Hyde. It was my theory Hyde was in the way of acquiring certain pharmaceutical substances for the good doctor’s rather outré researches.”

  “It was Mr. Holmes who first put us on to Jekyll,” said Newcomen, by way of apology. “We kept a sharp eye on him. We were sure Hyde would try to contact him sooner or later. Then the strangest thing of all occurred. The day Hyde reappeared—dead—was the same day Henry Jekyll vanished from the earth.”

  “Another piece of the puzzle I was not vouchsafed!” said Holmes, his bitterness renewed.

  “Well, now you know as much as I do,” said the inspector, trying to salve my friend’s feelings. “But what’s all this about, Mr. Holmes? Is it something the Yard needs to fret over?”

  Holmes told him then all we knew about the emergence of the man named Ned Hyde, so like his namesake in every frightening aspect. At his urging, I added my own brief impression of the man.

  “Quite a story, gentlemen,” said Newcomen when we concluded, “and I wouldn’t give it much credit if it didn’t come from Holmes and Watson. Sounds like our man from the eighties has an admirer.”

  “Which would not explain the physical resemblance Dr. Watson reported,” Holmes countered.

  Newcomen looked uncomfortable.

  “Perhaps . . . perhaps it’s his son,” I ventured.

  “There now!” cried Newcomen. “Dr. Watson has sussed it out! Most logical, too. Hyde the Younger.”

  Holmes said nothing, but I could see that he was reluctant to accept such a singular proposition. The idea of Hyde as a paterfamilias embracing his domestic duties was hard to square with what we knew of the man. Yet even scorpions breed.

  “Well, son or nephew or cousin, the fellow hasn’t popped up in any police reports so far as I know, certainly not under that blighted name,” Newcomen concluded. “Any known associates?”

  “One,” said Holmes. “The murderess Betsy Chubb.”

  The inspector whistled through his teeth. “I’m glad you retired, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “My heart couldn’t take the excitement of working with you every day. Dr. Watson, my hat’s off to you.”

  Holmes set the comment aside. “What can you tell me about the girl Nancy Kelly, who has followed in the footsteps of Miss Chubb?”

  “A bad business, that. The Home Office is threatening the commissioner’s job if this spree continues.”

  “What defense has she offered?”

  “No blasted memory of any of it, same as the other two.”

  “Two?” Holmes seized on the word like a hawk.

  “Ah! You’re unaware of the case of Susan Wallace?” asked New-comen, glad to have news to share. “We’ve just laid our hands on her. Murdered four men in a pub down by the docks, she did. Middle of the afternoon.”

  “And remembers nothing of it?”

  “Even worse than that, she had no connection with the murdered men whatever. They were Norwegian sailors off a coal tender. First time in jolly old England. It’s got them spooked along the waterfront, I can tell you.”

  “Was she acquainted with the other girls?”

  “Says not. But Chubb and Kelly once shared rooms in Angel Court with a third girl. Wallace, it turns out, was the landlord’s daughter.” He looked at Holmes searchingly. “Does that shine any light on the business?”

  “On the contrary, I confess it throws a new layer of obscurity on the problem. But then it is always darkest before the dawn.”

  The name of Angel Court had a familiar ring. Though I co
uld not place it then and there, it clawed at the back of my mind for days.

  “Right, then. Now it’s my innings. Why are underground assassins on the trail of Sherlock Holmes, who retired from the world a decade ago?”

  “A case of mistaken identity, I believe. Their quarrel is not with me, but a man named Morello.”

  “And who’s Mr. Morello when he’s at home?” Newcomen asked.

  “When at home, he is head of one of the most powerful crime families in New York City. But at present the New York police are holding him incognito in the Tombs, and have put out the story that he’s been kidnapped by a rival gang. They expect great things from this stratagem.”

  “Which you suggested to them?” Newcomen’s eyes twinkled.

  “Inspector! You know I’m retired. I merely took advantage of Mr. Morello’s enforced sabbatical to clothe myself in his gaudy raiment.”

  “Sounds a risky play. Always thought those disguises might land you in hot water someday.”

  Holmes made a wry face. “In hindsight, I am forced to agree.”

  There was no more information to be got out of Newcomen except news of his wife and family, which seemed to include an indecent number of grandchildren. He bade us farewell at the station, returning in the fly to his own home in nearby Woking.

  We were soon steaming through the fields on our way back to London. I was bursting with questions for Holmes, but as soon as we were settled in our car, he drew his hat down over his eyes and fell fast asleep. It may seem absurd, but the truth is that I had never laid eyes on Holmes asleep before in all my life. There was something uncanny about it, as if the locomotive had stopped in midstroke, or the tide had ceased its restless rocking.

  I had only my own thoughts to fall back on, and they were bleak enough. I thought about Newcomen, his children and grandchildren, and found that I was jealous. I thought about Edward Hyde—father and son? Sherlock Holmes would not pass his genius on to the next generation. Nor would Higgins or Pickering bequeath their amazing talents to posterity. Even humble Dr. John Watson would die childless. We were a society of bachelors, with tepid water in our veins. The new century would be peopled by a generation of Hydes, with only slow-witted policemen and their issue to stem the flood of savagery.

  When we pulled into the station, Holmes sat up and tipped his hat back to reveal a gaze so steady and alert that I wondered if he had ever been asleep. The gears of deduction were once again fully engaged.

  The rain had lifted, though it left the air raw. Holmes suggested we walk. We were crossing the Hungerford Bridge, huddled in our coats, and Big Ben chiming the noon hour when my mind flew back to the assassin in the graveyard.

  “What did you mean about the young man’s clothes?” I asked.

  Holmes halted upon the bridge. “Ah, yes, the clothes. I wondered when we’d come back to that. What did you observe, Watson?”

  “Nothing.” My eyes smarted as the wind whipped against my face. I wanted to keep moving, but Holmes was rooted in place.

  “Come now. Apply my methods. Describe him.”

  I tried to summon up the image. “He was dressed as a young man about town. Grey lounge jacket, spongebag trousers, toothpick shoes, gloves—nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary if he is a young man about town. But hardly the uniform of a clandestine assassin.”

  “I grant you that.” It seemed a ridiculous thing to fuss over. There was no uniform for assassins. “Can we go on now?” I meant it literally, and matched the act to the word.

  But Holmes remained behind, calling to me: “Here is the question you ought to ask. Who told these fellows that G.B. Morello was in London? It’s not as if it were announced in the Times.”

  I swirled about to face him for a moment. “Hyde could have told them!” I flung at him, continuing my march.

  Holmes caught up with me in long strides. “You know better than that. This Hyde is a solitary creature. He has no confederates. Nor would the fratelli be likely to trust him.”

  I studied the sharp contours of his face, the eyes that seemed to see beyond the horizon. “Then there is yet another agent of destruction at work upon our ruin?” I asked.

  “We shall be fortunate if there be only one.”

  We stepped off the bridge onto the Embankment. After our brush with death in the peaceful atmosphere of Surrey, I had felt relieved to get back to the bustling familiarity of London. I had not considered that danger might now crowd in from every corner.

  “What must we do now?”

  We walked on in silence for a bit. I imagined Holmes painting one scenario after another upon the canvas of his mind. He stopped and seemed to sniff the air.

  “Lunch, I think.”

  Lunch we did.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Late afternoon saw us back at Wimpole Street. As we turned the corner and gained sight of 27A, Holmes took hold of my arm and stopped me. He spoke quietly: “Now, Watson, quickly. Tell me what you see.”

  “The Higgins residence,” I answered in staccato report. “The door is shut. Nothing stirs the curtains in the windows. Wisps of smoke from the chimney pots.”

  “And in the street?”

  “A tinker passing with his pack. A hackney cab moving down the street at a slow clop. A pair of schoolboys arguing yesterday’s cricket match. And yes”—as he prodded me—“I do see Freddy at his post.”

  “Do you not find it remarkable that he can be found there day or night, rain or shine?”

  I remembered Freddy’s midnight patrol in the mews the night I had thought him asleep on the settee. “Love breeds fortitude in young men,” I offered half-heartedly.

  “A sterling platitude. But are you certain it’s Freddy? Observe the wardrobe.”

  There was nothing remarkable in Freddy’s clothing. It was the uniform of the flaneur—lounge jacket, spongebag trousers, toothpick shoes, gloves—my knees nearly buckled. “Holmes! The assassin! He wore the same outfit.”

  Holmes nodded, grinning. “One of the hard-eyed men young Robert mentioned. And unless I miss my guess, this is another of his ilk. It was obvious from the beginning the house was under watch, and by someone far more clever than Freddy. Our expedition this morning was meant to draw them out. I was not expecting quite the level of success that we experienced.”

  “How shall we take him?”

  “Ever the bulldog. No, Watson, he is but a little fish. If his master has not yet been apprised of this morning’s failure, this one will scud off to tell him the news. Our secret adversary will soon become desperate, and then we shall have him in our grasp.”

  Holmes strode forward, pulling me along. “Freddy” must have recognized us as we neared, for he swung away on his heel and retreated down the road, twirling his stick and whistling a music hall tune. It was so admirable a performance that Holmes laughed as we mounted the steps and went in.

  “Where the devil have you two been all day?” Higgins was upon us in a moment, like a schoolmaster eager to give his charges a caning. “I woke up this morning and there was nary a soul in the house!” By this of course, he meant that he had fallen out of bed at noon to find only the half-dozen usual servants, all of whom presumably owned souls. “Where’s Eliza?”

  We looked at him dumbfounded. “I haven’t got her in my pocket,” Holmes drawled.

  “No, but I dare say you’d like to,” Higgins said sneeringly.

  Holmes stopped cold in the act of lighting a cigar, the vesta burning in his fingers. His eyes flashed fire. “You want to elaborate on that?” he said quietly.

  I shudder to think what might have happened had I not been there. Holmes has the world’s longest fuse, but his powder is black. “Perhaps the colonel and Miss Doolittle went out to take the morning air,” I said fatuously.

  “Morning air!” sniffed Higgins. “It’s killed more people than the cholera. Mr. Morello, you shall take the afternoon air, and the evening air, and I hazard to say the midnight air tonight in thi
s laboratory. You will make progress today, sir, this I vow.”

  Holmes lit his cigar and barked a laugh. He still spoke not a word, but I could see that his dangerous mood had passed. I took this as a signal my services would not be needed that afternoon, and attempted to slip quietly from the room. But Higgins turned on me imperiously: “As for you, you blackguard,” he said, “find Pickering!”

  With nothing else on my plate, and no wish to be subjected to further tirades from the professor, I decided to go look for Pickering after all. Knowing Pixie’s habits, I inquired of Mrs. Pearce where the closest two or three bookstalls were to be found. This led to a chinwag on the state of modern literature. Mrs. Pearce thought novels the worst habit of idle young ladies, but she was an avid reader of poetry, and could recite “Dover Beach” by heart. We both preferred Ruskin to Hazlitt. At length she wrote down some directions for me, and I journeyed forth to find the colonel. I had done better by far to stay indoors and treat Mrs. Pearce to my dramatic rendition of “My Last Duchess.”

  I had already tried the first shop and come up empty-handed and was approaching the second when I thought I spied Freddy coming down the street toward me in the company of another man. I should have been on my guard. As I raised my hand to greet him, I was snatched by the collar and slung like a grain sack into the shadows of the alley behind the shop. I was slammed against a brick wall and felt the breath whistle out of me.

  At first there seemed a dozen of them, moving everywhere at once in a clickety marionette cadence, like spiders securing the corners of a web, but as my sight cleared, I counted four: all Freddies. There was a Freddy pinning my left arm, and one on my right, a Freddy standing lookout, and the another with a knife pressed against my Adam’s apple, and all of them were Freddies. I mean to say they were all young men identically dressed in the kind of clothes Freddy might wear, even to the dented top hat. Their faces were all nearly identical as well, but not at all like Freddy: olive-complected, with dark angry eyes and cruel mouths. These were the “hard-eyed men” Robert had described. I was utterly at their mercy.