Mycroft Holmes (18 page)

“If
you
can,” Holmes muttered.

The two kept hurrying along, with Douglas trying to ignore his sour gut and aching head as he pondered the captain’s words.

“So it is your assumption, to this point,” Douglas posited, “that the captain had been paid or goaded into compliance, and that he in turn had made the priest complicit. For surely nothing happens on a ship without the captain’s knowing.”

Holmes nodded. “That priest, like the others, was not a professional deceiver. He was simply a man who found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“This way,” Douglas said, pointing. While still back in London, he had written ahead and secured a rig to take them wherever they wished to go. Plaza del Marina was to be the assigned meeting place.

As he kept up with his friend’s long strides, Holmes recalled Douglas’s plaintive words back on the ship.

I enjoyed my life well enough as it was.

As did I
, he mused.
As did I.

What a strange and unwelcome twist of fate. He never intended to be on a scout-about in Trinidad for the estimable Edward Cardwell. Nor did he intend for it to be a ruse to chase his fiancée halfway around the world, only to lose sight of her before the journey had even begun.

He never intended, for the life of him, to be assaulted, cut, poisoned, then beaten—and to drag his closest friend through the thick of it. It comforted him only a little to know that Douglas would surely have made the journey regardless of his involvement.

Though possibly not with strangers attempting to
kill
him
, he admitted to himself. Holmes continued to believe that it was he—not Douglas—who was the lightning rod for all this misery.
Someone does not want me to follow Georgiana
.
Perhaps to find her.

Perhaps to learn what she knows…

Holmes’s reverie was interrupted when Douglas cleared his throat. He looked up to see his friend’s chin pointing in front of them. But he could discern nothing beyond a phalanx of top hats spreading this way and that.

“What is it?” Holmes whispered without stopping.

By way of response, Douglas picked up his pace even more, pushing through the throng without so much as a “thank you” or an “if you please.” Holmes followed as best he could, wondering what could cause his friend to behave in this very un-Douglas-like manner.

As the crowds scattered to their own destinations, Holmes finally saw what had so piqued his friend’s interest. The man was stout. Hair like carrot shavings poked out from underneath his brown cap and curled down his thick neck. On his back and over one shoulder, he carried a rolled up woolen blanket. And when he turned to glance furtively over his shoulder, Holmes caught a glimpse of the ugly scar that split his forehead in twain and reached around to his ears.

Holmes indicated the blanket. “He is a swagman,” he muttered to Douglas, who nodded.

“And he is most certainly not deceased!” the latter added in a harsh whisper.

The man hastened across the street, impervious to traffic, and then hurried down a set of rickety steps that led to the doorway of an anonymous bar. Holmes was ready to follow when Douglas held him back.

“That is not a place for you, Holmes,” he said. “Your skin is decidedly the wrong color.”

“That redhead is whiter than I!” Holmes protested.

“No one could possibly be whiter than you,” Douglas chided. Then, to head off any reply, he added, “He has his swag, Holmes. He is a vagrant, a traveler. He knows these parts, and they know him.”

“Then you must go,” Holmes said, but Douglas shook his head.

“I have a better idea. Come along.” With that, he sprinted across the street, his hand lifted to halt horses and mules and carts.

Unlike London, where any attempt to circumvent traffic resulted in curses and perhaps a sound beating, people here seemed more kind, some even smiling at the two strangers, freshly arrived and still carrying their bags, who seemed in such a frightful hurry to procure a drink.

Once they had crossed, Douglas glanced around and found a place where his bags would remain unnoticed. Placing them out of sight, he climbed a ladder, then clambered in through a cracked window above the pub.

After a moment’s hesitation, Holmes followed suit.

IT WAS AN INSUFFERABLY FILTHY ROOM, ABUSED BY AGE AND
grime, but quite abandoned. Here and there the wallpaper, which appeared to have once been decorated with light pink rosettes, was yellowed as if someone had thought of setting it on fire but then changed his mind at the last minute.

“What is this place?” Holmes whispered.

“Was,” Douglas whispered back. “Opium den.”

“Ah,” Holmes said under his breath, as if that made all the sense in the world.

In truth, he had always had sympathy for the poor wretches who found themselves addicted to some substance or other. They had troubles enough, he felt, without being demonized. His brother, on the other hand, was merciless with habit and dependency of any sort. Sherlock dismissed the fact that he smoked tobacco, however, as a peccadillo—but then Sherlock made himself the exception to every rule.

He could still picture Sherlock waving to him from that impossibly grubby corner he claimed for his own. However strange the scene had been at the time—that was how normal and even serene it appeared in retrospect. He hoped he would remain alive long enough to tell his brother all about this strange adventure he had embarked upon.

In the center of the room, among the whorls of dust that looked as if they had been created of spun cotton, was a wooden chair deprived of two of its legs. Douglas pulled it out of the way to uncover four knotholes in the floor—whether man-made or natural, it was hard for Holmes to tell, as the whole place appeared to be so very chewed up.

“There you see?” Douglas whispered. “A bird’s-eye view into the bar below.”

“Provided the birds can sink to their knees and stare through knotholes in floorboards,” Holmes muttered as he squatted down.

* * *

It was nearly impossible to make out more than shadows, but as their eyes adjusted, they noticed their man taking an empty seat at the bar. He took off his cap, revealing hair of such orange-red hue that even the darkness could not subdue it.

To his left, and particularly difficult to discern, were two more men. By their casual demeanor, it was clear they all knew each other.

Then, a fourth man appeared. He was massive, every bit as large as the one that Douglas had labeled “the figgy pudding.” In his hand he held a pot of ale, which he poured into three waiting mugs, while he kept the pot for himself. He took a seat to the right of the redhead.

The four men clinked, and drank. They spoke, but Holmes and Douglas could not hear what was said. One by one, however, they turned so their features could be seen, and before long it was certain—all four assailants were still quite alive.

A moment later, someone else entered Holmes and Douglas’s sightline. He was small, thin as a stick, and barefooted. Even in the dark, he looked no more than ten years of age. He had the tentative demeanor of the chronically impoverished. His shoulders were raised up around his ears, his head pulled slightly back as if to protect himself from a blow that sooner or later would surely come. Around his neck hung a tray, affixed by a strap, laden with pies.

The boy tapped the redhead on the shoulder and held out his offerings.

“Rickets!” one of the men bellowed to another. “Why, here’s a feast, my lad!”

Above his head, Holmes elbowed Douglas.

“Did you hear that?” he asked softly. “Rickets. The four men who attacked us in the passageway are clearly the same men who waylaid us outside our—”

“Meat pies,” Douglas whispered back, interrupting him. “Minced beef packed with thyme, chives, garlic, onion, paprika.”

“Enough!” Holmes hissed through gritted teeth. “My mouth is watering as it is—I do not need details. Meat pies, you say?”

Douglas nodded silently.

Beneath them, the redhead slapped his comrade on the shoulder and pointed a thumb the boy’s way, and soon all four men had turned and were grabbing at his wares. When he tried to pull the tray away, the redhead cuffed him smartly on the ear, while another threw a few coins on the ground by his feet, all the while rising from the stool in a threatening manner to indicate that—whatever their cost—he needn’t wait for more.

The boy gathered the coins and disappeared, his pies taken, and the men turned back to the bar to enjoy their food and drink.

Holmes kept watching, though the hard wood was playing havoc with his knees, which were still bruised from the beating. He felt in his jacket pocket for Georgiana’s cameo—something that had become second nature to him—and wondered for the thousandth time where she was.

But then, next to the cameo, so comforting and familiar, Holmes felt something else—the backward-facing feet of the figurine. He pulled his hand from his pocket as if he had touched fire, and focused once again on the scene below.

* * *

In less than twenty minutes’ time, the men in the bar had finished off the pies and downed nearly four pots of ale.

At this juncture, the redhead and the figgy pudding—the most visible of the four—began to act strangely. They touched their lips with their fingertips, and then squeezed their hands. The redhead cocked his head, as if he were listening for something. Then he wiped beer—or perhaps it was drool—that dribbled from the sides of his mouth.

Without warning, he clawed at his chest as if trying to dig something out.

The figgy pudding, with his hand laid gently over his heart, seemed to be trying to draw air into his lungs, to no avail.

Then all four men lurched to their feet, and began stumbling about in panicked distress, ripping at their chests, squeezing their throats, or rubbing hands and faces with increasing desperation. One by one, they fell.

Moments later, all four lay crumpled on the dirt floor.

Chaos ensued. Several patrons went near and checked the men for breath and heartbeat. Apparently finding neither, they assured the others in the bar that yes, indeed, all four were most decidedly dead. One of the patrons went to the entrance and lifted the curtain. Sun streamed inside.

Above, Douglas and Holmes recoiled back from the unexpected light, then resettled.

With newfound clarity, Holmes noticed a slender man who stood up from a nearby table, pulled a fur cap from out of his back pocket, and with his two hands—one of which was missing two fingers—placed the hat upon his head. Then, with a strange, shuffling gait, he walked out of the establishment without looking back.

Holmes was just glancing over to Douglas when the latter caught his eye.

“Edward Dedos,” Douglas declared, “known as Three-Fingered Eddie. Port of Spain’s most efficient poisoner.”

“Ah,” Holmes responded. The deaths had shaken him more than he cared to admit, and he could think of nothing pertinent to say.

The two dusted off their knees and headed for the window.

DOUGLAS AND HOLMES HURRIED OUT AND DOWN THE LADDER
again and did some scouting about as the lorry wagon arrived with its hand-cranked siren to pick up the bodies.

But neither the boy nor Three-Fingered Eddie were to be found.

They recovered the bags, which to Holmes’s relief had remained untouched. Then they hastened toward Plaza del Marina, where they were to meet their cab.

“So,” Holmes exclaimed in a tone that, to Douglas, sounded suspiciously like intrigue. “A poisoner for hire.”

“You seem to be enjoying this part a bit too much, Holmes,” Douglas said.

“Not at all,” Holmes protested, though inwardly he wondered if he was, just a little. “It’s purely scientific curiosity,” he continued as they went. “Accounting for loss of sensation in the lips, fingers, and lower joints, culminating with paralysis of the diaphragm… would you say puffer fish?”

Douglas nodded. “A quick but painful death. Eddie milks the creatures that carry the toxins—puffers, toads, blue-ringed octopuses, certain types of angelfish. And he is diabolically good at placing the stuff where it can best be ingested.”