A Study in Murder (16 page)

‘Who died?’

‘Three of your fellow countrymen.’

‘Three? How? Trying to escape?’

The German shook his head. ‘Not exactly.’

‘What did you put on the certificates?’

‘Heart failure.’

Watson laughed. ‘All three? Three men died of heart failure in the space of . . . how long?’

Stiegler looked agitated. ‘I shall get food sent up. You can ask the commandant—’

‘How long?’ Watson insisted.

‘The same night. They all died at the same time.’

‘Of what? And do not say cardiac failure.’

The German squashed the cigarette in Watson’s ashtray and lit a second, inhaling several times before he spoke. Watson bided his time.

‘Are you a man of science, Major? Someone who believes all the wonders of life will one day be explained by chemistry and physics?’

‘I’d like to think so,’ said Watson. ‘Not the wonder of it, perhaps, but the mechanics, yes.’

‘I, too, but you know, as men of science even we have come across situations that challenge our beliefs.’

‘Challenge how?’

‘Things that suggest what we know of the world is pitifully little. Something beyond our feeble understanding—’

Watson felt his patience snap and a rush of anger brought a flush to his face. ‘Steigler, for God’s sake man, can you get to the point?’

‘I don’t believe,’ Steigler said evenly, ‘that they were killed by anything known to our science.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Whatever killed your comrades, Major Watson, came from beyond the grave.’

Von Bork walked alongside the muddy River Meuse to the north of Venlo, its surface riffled by a sharp wind blowing down from the North Sea, where Allied ships, submarines and
minefields were trying to starve Germany into submission. He was on the Dutch side, heading for a small workers’ café that mostly served the employees of the three boatyards that
operated on this stretch of the river, to build and repair barges and tugboats. How easily they could all now have been in German hands.

Von Bork had seen the original versions of the Schlieffen Plan, which had called for a sweep through the Netherlands as well as Belgium. It had made perfect sense, but for some reason the High
Command had modified it, so that in the event only Belgium was invaded. Had they taken Holland and, more importantly, its ports, the Allied blockade would have been almost impossible. On such
decisions does the fate of nations turn, he thought glumly.

The German drew level with the bridge that spanned the Meuse. Its black girders were flecked with rust, although the mechanical system displayed evidence of recent care and attention, with
cables, pulleys and pistons conscientiously greased. Across the other side was his homeland, because in 1893, Germany had moved a small section of her western boundary by a handful of kilometres,
creating a new border right down the centre of the river for a short distance.

He stepped out onto the span, looking down between the wide wooden planks at the sludgy waters below. The bridge was in two halves. The span he was walking on was fixed, running out to
mid-stream where it rested on a concrete pillar. The second half of the bridge, the part that connected to Germany, was hinged, so that it swung back at ninety degrees, ostensibly to let larger
river traffic pass, but in fact to ensure that only the Dutch had control of this access point.

The Knok bridge had been officially extended half a dozen times since the conflict began, always for some ceremonial reason, such as the crossing of the first prisoners to be released on their
bond into Holland, and for the exchange of civilian internees that neither side wished to hang on to.

He raised a hand in salute to the two Germans standing at the checkpoint at the far side, and they returned the greeting. It wasn’t much more than a symbolic entry point into Germany, just
a striped pole across the road that punctured the border fence and an adjacent rough shed for the brewing of coffee – one perk of the posting was that the little garrison could obtain the
real thing from Venlo, Lomm or Arcen – and, further up the road into the Fatherland, a sand-bagged machine-gun post. Everything was manned by soldiers who were old or crippled or both. But
then the Germans knew the Dutch weren’t coming across. The Government of Holland was aware of what fate awaited armies in this war. They weren’t about to allow the Allies to strike
through their country nor, heaven forbid, take the offensive themselves. They’d sit this dance out, thank you very much.

Von Bork lit a cigarette and retraced his steps, back to the Dutch bank, and covered the two hundred metres to the café in double-quick time. That wind was a blade, able to open up even
his Schipper overcoat. Inside the café it was warm and steamy and he shrugged off the coat and hung it on a stand by the door, ignoring the few hostile stares thrown his way. He was in
civilian clothes, but his accent as he asked the proprietor for coffee and cake was unmistakable. There were some hereabouts who had been displaced by the Imperial land grab of twenty years earlier
and treated all Germans as thieves.

The owner put the coffee down and pointed at a chair. ‘Do you mind,’ he asked in German, ‘if I join you for a moment?’

Von Bork, curious, shook his head. The man sat and set about filling his pipe. ‘My daughter will fetch the cake,’ he said, indicating a thick-ankled woman in her thirties, her
slumped shoulders and untidy hair suggesting someone who was resigned to a life of serving coffee and cake to greasy-fingered dockworkers.

‘What can I do for you?’ Von Bork asked.

‘I have two nephews in your army. German father, you see. I look at your coat –’ his eyes darted to the Schipper – ‘your suit, your nails, the five-guilder haircut.
You are no mere civil servant. Am I right?’

Von Bork shrugged.

‘I want those boys back alive. You should stop this madness before the Americans come into the war.’

‘It is hardly my decision.’

The proprietor shook his hairless head. ‘Not alone, no. But what is a government? Collectively, a lot of men like you. Together, maybe, you can make the Kaiser and Hindenburg and
Ludendorff see sense.’

Clearly the man did not know Ludendorff. The term ‘iron will’ could have been coined for the humourless, friendless martinet.

‘We’d all like the killing to stop. But not on terms that will damage Germany.’

The man gave a bitter laugh. ‘Fifteen kilometres over that bridge you seem so interested in, I’ve seen fatherless children starving in the streets, reduced to begging. Ah, here is
your cake.’ He stood while the daughter placed the plate before him. ‘Enjoy.’

Von Bork considered walking away without touching it, but he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. ‘And another cup of your excellent coffee, please,’ he said, scooping up a
forkful of
taart
. The owner gave a frown as he stood and retreated to the kitchen.

Perhaps the interfering fool was right, Von Bork thought as a little capsule of meringue exploded in his mouth, releasing a tangy citrus flavour. But he had smaller fish to fry than the war.
While he savoured the cake, Von Bork pulled out the telegram he had picked up from the
postkantoor
in Venlo. Reading it for the tenth time washed away all the sourness that the conversation
had built up.

It was the reply to the proposal he had sent the great detective. And now he had him. Von Bork had Sherlock Holmes at last.

Herbert Greenhough Smith, the editor of the
Strand Magazine
, was dressed, as always, in his old-fashioned frock coat. It marked him out as a man from another age, Mrs
Gregson thought. Someone who would love to use his pages to rail against lounge suits and straw boaters. But people bought the
Strand
for escapism, not politics, and so the readers were
spared his anachronistic views. He shifted uneasily in his chair as he examined Mrs Gregson one more time, as if unable to quite believe what she was offering him. They were in his office above
Southampton Street, the noise of the apparently endless road repairs outside drifting up to them.

‘I’m . . .’ Greenhough Smith paused and stroked his moustache, wondering how to phrase this. The offer she had made was tantalizing in the extreme. His breath was short at the
very thought. But he had to be careful. ‘Do you have the authority for what you are proposing?’

Mrs Gregson shook her head. She had known this would be the trickiest part. ‘Not exactly, but I can assure you—’

‘I don’t need assurances, Mrs Gregson,’ he interrupted, ‘I need a contract with the author.’

‘I can’t give you that,’ she said flatly.

Greenhough Smith swivelled slightly in his chair, and stared at the artwork on his walls, including an enormous portrait of his predecessor, George Newnes, before he rotated back. ‘Then I
am afraid I have to decline your offer.’

‘I can have a legal document drawn up saying I will deliver. If I fail to do so, then the monies will be refunded in full. I shall put a charge against my parents’ house.’

‘Will you? And they’ll be fine with that?’

Once she explained the situation, perhaps. ‘Yes.’

Mrs Gregson waited, hands clutched firmly on the handle of her large handbag. He was clearly tempted – who wouldn’t be? – but he was also a businessman. ‘I don’t
see what you have got to lose.’

He laughed at this. ‘Only money.’

‘But I just explained—’ she began.

‘No matter how you dress it up, it’s still a promise. Everything you are saying is just a promise. I’d be betting you are as good as your word. And, frankly, Mrs Gregson, I
don’t know you from Eve. You claim to be an old friend of Holmes and Watson—’

She unclipped the catch of her bag and took out the small bundle of letters. She slid them across the desk. ‘These are personal, you appreciate,’ she said. ‘Which is why I
didn’t use them unless I had to. Perhaps you would simply examine the signature.’

Greenhough Smith picked up the stack, undid the ribbon and leafed through the flimsy papers quickly, as if anxious not to let his eyes fall on any stray sentence. When he was satisfied, he
carefully retied the bundle. ‘They would appear to be from Dr Watson, yes.’

‘I have heard no word from Major Watson for some time now,’ she said as she scooped the correspondence back up. ‘I think that does not bode well. Which is why I am anxious to
act.’ She felt a surge of emotion well up inside her. But she was not going to cry, even though her eyes were stinging. That wasn’t how she was going to win over an old trooper like
Greenhough Smith. She began to sob.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ She reached into her bag once more and pulled out a handkerchief. ‘I didn’t mean . . . it’s so . . . I’m so weak.
It’s not very professional. But, well, as you can see, I care for the major.’

‘You must care for him very much,’ said Greenhough Smith softly.

She smiled as she dabbed at her eyes. ‘I won’t argue the point, Mr Smith.’ Mrs Gregson cleared her throat and composed herself. ‘I have a scheme to help him, and that
scheme will cost me money. The most valuable asset we have – I have – is Dr Watson’s talent as an author and Sherlock Holmes’s celebrity. As editor of the magazine that made
both their names, I don’t have to remind you of that. I am offering you at least one case from Baker Street that the world is not yet aware of.’

‘I cannot deny what a coup this would be, Mrs Gregson. And I feel for Dr Watson, as you do. He is an old friend. He has been very loyal over the years.’ Greenhough Smith glanced over
his shoulder at the portrait of Newnes once again, as if looking for his approval from the old man. He turned back, slapped the desk with the flat of his hand and grinned at her. ‘I say,
let’s do it, Mrs Gregson. Let’s get Watson home. And let’s give the public what they have been baying for – the further adventures of Sherlock Holmes!’

Mrs Gregson tried to keep the feeling of satisfaction from showing in her features. ‘In which case, my price is two thousand pounds.’

As the magnitude of the sum sank in, the smile slowly faded from Herbert Greenhough Smith’s face.

‘In advance.’

Robert Nathan had never considered himself a man in need of a wife. Harriet, his first, had died, along with her child, soon after they had arrived in India. Since then his
needs had been fulfilled by a succession of widows and, on occasion, other men’s wives. But remarriage? It had never occurred to him. Until he met the blasted Mrs Gregson.

He was sitting in one of MI5’s cars, a sleek six-cylinder Napier, which Kell had commissioned directly from the company, claiming priority because they were for ‘the war
effort’. Nathan wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing for the war effort sitting opposite the Diogenes Club off the Strand, while Mrs Gregson was engaged in what she called ‘a
fundraising mission’ with an editor.

Asked what else she needed to bring her plan to fruition she had smiled and said: ‘This project requires four more things: a magician, a lighter-than-air machine, a dead body and a meeting
with Mr Sherlock Holmes.’

It was a queer business, all right, but the woman certainly had the means to bend men to her will. Although he wouldn’t officially sanction anything she did, Vernon Kell had agreed that
the country owed Holmes and Watson enough of a debt to lend Mrs Gregson the use of Nathan and Hiram Buller, the young, bucktoothed driver sitting behind the wheel.

Nathan consulted his watch. ‘Why don’t we just go in there and get him, sir?’ Buller asked, nodding at the porticoed entrance to the club, with its fearsome bulldog of a
doorman, all jowls and scowls for anyone approaching his precious steps.

‘Apparently, it will bring down the Government,’ said Nathan.

‘What will?’

‘Going in there.’

Buller laughed, suspecting a joke. ‘How’s that, sir?’

‘I don’t know, lad. It’s not like the Overseas or The Empire or The East India. It has its peculiarities, shall we say. If we were to simply barge in, so the Guv’nor
says, it would reflect badly on the service.’ And Kell was all about making sure that MI5 ended the war stronger than it had begun it.