Sherlock Holmes and The Scarlet Thread of Murder (8 page)

“I ventured into the factory where I was stopped by a warden.

“‘What are you doing sniffing around here?' he yelled.

“‘I am looking into the death of Mr. Daniels, your employer.'

“The man froze stiff. ‘Dead, you say? What happened?'

“‘Hanged himself,' I returned. ‘It is most important that I have a look through his offices.'

“‘Now sir, I can't let you do that.'

“‘I assure you, you can.' I introduced myself to him, but he was not impressed.

“‘I don't care who you are, private detective or not. This here is my factory and I can't let people go sniffing around.'

“‘Every man has his price.'

“He paused a moment and I handed what would have been to him a considerable amount of money. His eyes lit up, and I knew I had him. ‘What can you tell of your employer Mr. Daniels?'

“He slipped the money into his dirty charcoal jacket and said, ‘He was a decent bloke, as far as I could tell. He was always careful about who he put his trust in, and if you ever broke it you'd be gone.'

“‘What do you mean by ‘be gone'?'

“‘Well, if you ever got on his bad side or were just inept he'd cut you loose. Send you packing. That sort of thing.'

“‘When did you see him last?'

“‘I haven't seen him in some months. He's only telegrammed. After Thomas was killed in the explosion at Whitechapel Station, he stopped coming into the factory.'

“‘How long have you held this position?'

“‘Oh, only a few months.'

“‘Who was in the role before you?'

“‘A man named Phillias Jackson. Of course he wasn't here very long.'

“‘Why was that?'

“‘Not quite sure. I remember him coming in with Mr. Daniels and Mr. Thomas and being shown around, then about two weeks later he was made Warden and we were informed of some new business that we'd be doing.'

“‘What kind of business?'

“‘Thomas opened up some trade with India and Afghanistan.'

“‘What kind of trade?'

“‘Nothing important. Some of it was animals, some was fabrics, spices. That sort.'

“‘Back on point, then. Why did Mr. Jackson step down from being Warden?'

“‘Well, not sure. I remember hearing them, Thomas and Daniels, that is, arguing about Jackson. It seemed like Thomas didn't trust him all that much. Think he wanted too much money for his job. Least that's the way Daniels put it to me when he gave me the job. See, Jackson was let go but no one really knew why, and all I was told that financially he didn't agree with them.'

“‘And how long did Jackson work here?'

“‘Probably six months or so.'

“‘You've been quite helpful. Now, if you can give me access to the offices, I shouldn't be long.'

“He quickly showed me to them. I asked for some privacy, which he reluctantly gave. I went through papers and shipment logs. There was nothing much of note. In the office was a safe. I enquired with the warden as to the whereabouts of the key. He said only Daniels had it. I had no time to travel back to Daniels' and find it, so I managed to pick the lock. Inside, I came across some very telling things. A contract drafted by Phillias Jackson that made him an equal partner in the company. Deep lines of ink were scratched through it. When the Warden thought money was the issue, he was wrong. It wasn't Jackson's wage at the factory, it was the fact he wanted to be a partner.” Holmes reached into his jacket pocket. “I also found these, letters between Goodtree and Daniels.

David,

We must remove Jackson.

Goodtree

Thomas,

I agree, but he's put us in a peculiar situation. This will take a lot of legal action, and probably a hefty sum of money to get rid of him.

Daniels.

David,

Whatever the cost, he needs to be removed from our employ and our lives. We need to rid ourselves of his cunning.

Goodtree.

Thomas,

Meet with me tomorrow, at the club. We can discuss things there.

Daniels.

Thomas,

It's been done. At what cost, I cannot say. But he has been removed. We can only hope he leaves us in peace.

Daniels.

“These men sounded suspicious of Jackson, as if he had something on them.” Holmes looked at me inquisitively but uttered no response as he trailed off into his thoughts.

“So you think Phillias is behind the poisoning?” I asked.

“During my search there were unmarked shipments labelled private. Some of the shipments were from Burkum and Lynn.”

“The weapons manufacturer?”

“The very one. It was mostly explosive powder, but it vanished after it arrived at the factory. The other shipments were of a vegetated nature from Afghanistan. This is where we were lucky - someone had scribbled down ‘flowers'. It seems no harm to speculate that these flowers were the fire flowers. However, where these shipments went after arriving is a mystery.”

“How does this help us?” I asked.

“It's quite obvious,” said Holmes with a grin. “All of these shipments stopped once Jackson was fired. Daniels cancelled all shipments post-Jackson.”

“So, Jackson used the trade with Afghanistan to bring in the poisonous flowers while he also acquired powder from Burkum and Lynn. He surely is responsible for poisoning Daniels!” I declared.

“Unfortunately, he's dead.”

“Dead!” I cried.

“I went to see Inspector Lestrade. I found him sitting in his office going over paperwork. I asked him if they questioned Jackson, or anyone in Daniels' and Thomas' employee after Thomas' death.

“‘Why would we do that?' Lestrade asked me. My irritation was no secret. ‘Don't hang your head like a disappointed parent, Holmes!' he snapped.

“‘It is not your fault,” I comforted the Inspector. “It is reasons like these the Yard comes to me for aid. I have reason to believe he is behind the murder of Daniels and Thomas.'

“‘We've no proof that Daniels was murdered,” Lestrade stammered. “He clearly hanged himself, and that Thomas fellow was just on the wrong train at the wrong time. The explosion was caused by a Jewish anarchist. D.I. Reid has been on the case, I'm sure he'll hunt them down.'

“‘Don't you see, Lestrade? It's all there in the shipments.' I told him of the fire flower and missing powder shipments. ‘Get me a report; the powder from the explosion will be from Burkum and Lynn.'

“‘You'll have to see Reid about that, Mr. Holmes. I know he's got a man working on the explosion, and they've come up with nothing. You're just offering a stab in the dark here. Now, I'm knee deep with this Daniels case. I'll follow up with our surgeon, see if he thinks Daniels was poisoned. But I'm not sure Jackson is your man.'

“‘Why is this?'

‘His body washed up near the Tower of London this morning. His face was severely mutilated, but the mole confirmed it was him, on the right side of his face.'

“‘Where did he live?'

Lestrade gave me the address and I came to collect you before going out there.”

“Could there be a fourth man?” I asked.

“I believe there may be. Daniels, it seems, isn't a wholly honest man.”

“What else do you know, Holmes?”

He did not respond to my question, and remained quiet for the rest of our journey to Davenport House.

Chapter 12

Doctor Watson

The Detective and the Investigator

Autumn 1890

Holmes and I stepped into the small shed where the landlord had informed us another group of detectives were investigating. Holmes and I were both curious as to who it was that was following a similar trail to us and why. We opened the door to see two men, both fairly tall, one thin, the other slightly older round.

“Who are you?” the thin man pressed.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and colleague Doctor Watson.” Holmes turned and smiled at the round man. “Mr. Hewitt, I should thank you for looking after things while I was in America some time ago.”

“It was my pleasure,” said Hewitt, walking over and shaking Holmes's hand. “But you really must explain what you are doing here. Did Mrs. Goodtree come and see you as well?”

“Our role in this narrative began when a Mr. David Daniels came to see me about a strange haunting by the ‘Goblin Man',” said Holmes.

“I thought that goblin fiend had left the city?” Hewitt asked.

“It seems he did not - or someone was posing as the Goblin.” Holmes relayed our entire investigation. Holmes and Hewitt became deeply invested in discussing the poisonous flower used on Daniels. Hewitt's interest was piqued by Holmes's accusation of Jackson, the shipped powder and the Whitechapel explosion. Both Hewitt and his associate, Brett, were taken aback when Holmes informed them of the baffling news that Mr. Jackson was dead.

“How can he be dead?” Hewitt asked. Looking back up at Holmes, he asked, “Did you have a chance to examine the body?”

“I have not,” Holmes acknowledged.

“Let us not forget we saw an unknown woman approach Daniels' door, hand him something, and dash off into the night,” said I.

“An unknown woman?” the thin man questioned. “Any chance it was Mrs. Goodtree?”

“You've mentioned this name before. Who is she?” Holmes asked.

“As it happens, we are working for Mrs. Goodtree, the former wife of Mr. Thomas, Daniels' business partner.” Holmes eyes lit up with realisation. “She and Jackson were having relations. She is with child, and wishes us to find Jackson. If you say he is dead, then we should have a look at the body and have her identify him for us,” said Hewitt. Holmes began looking around the shed, scraping powders and putting them into envelopes while Hewitt carried on. “However, I believe Mrs. Goodtree to be withholding something from us. She told us that she did not know where Jackson lived, but the landlord here informed us earlier that Jackson was prone to having a lady visitor.”

“You suspect Mrs. Goodtree is covering something up?” I asked.

“It's likely, but what I cannot say. The landlord has no suspicion of Jackson, and informed us that Jackson was off to the continent.”

“The continent?” I asked. “Why would he go there?”

“This might be of interest,” said Holmes. The three of us turned to look at him. He had opened a box, which contained a most interesting assortment of grotesque objects: a strange yellow rubber mask with light-green bulbous lenses in the eye sockets. Two gloves with sharp black fingernails on the tips, some torn up clothes and a battered top hat. It dawned upon me what it was I was seeing.

“My word, Holmes!” said I. “This is surely the Goblin's outfit!” Hewitt walked over, and the Detective and Investigator examined the findings.

“Could all this be a blind?” Brett asked. “Might Mrs. Goodtree know about all of this and be trying to help Jackson flee the city?”

“You're jumping ahead, Brett,” said Hewitt. “You forget the corpse.”

“Yes, the corpse,” murmured Holmes as he rifled through the box. Something appeared to catch his attention, and with a sudden jolt he stood up. “These are the facts we know. A: we have a suit that resembles that worn by the Goblin Man. B: we have what appear to be traces of powder and explosive materials. C: we have cause for his death - with Jackson being fired and sleeping with Mrs. Goodtree. What we don't have yet is proof he was behind any such explosion, or that he was the one in the Goblin suit.”

“Our next course of action,” Hewitt said. „Brett, would you fetch Mrs. Goodtree and bring her to Scotland Yard where we can have Inspector Lestrade show us the body.”

“Watson, Hewitt and I shall go straight to Lestrade. Would you take this envelope and speak with Detective Inspector Reid? Ask him about the findings at Whitechapel. This powder will likely be the same which was in the explosion. If he can spare the time, bring him to us.”

We departed quickly; Holmes and Hewitt took one cab while Brett and I shared the other.

Chapter 13

Doctor Watson

Whitechapel

Autumn 1890

For the sake of speed, Brett and I abandoned the cab at a nearby station and took a train into the city. We came into Victoria Station where we parted company. I took the District Railway east from Victoria. The train shot through the tunnels like a bullet. The roar of the train was in some way soothing: The clicking of the wheels as they clapped over the tracks, the gentle sway of the cabin, and creaking of the wooden doors. The train stopped at Whitechapel Station where I disembarked. I looked at my fob watch upon stepping out into the stale East End air. The time was six o'clock, and the sun had vanished. Within sight stood Saint Paul's Cathedral. Its towering steeples were erect like sentinels, and atop its dome rested a golden cross. A hopeful reminder to this destitute area of justice and judgement.

I quickly made my way to Leman St and H Division. Having been to Scotland Yard many times and been around the ruffians there, H Division has a unique sense of chaos that other Division lack. The station was alive with the shouting and wailing of inmates and drunkards. A couple of officers were attempting to clap irons on a drunk man who had lunged at a man nearby. A couple of prostitutes were arguing over a fare. One of them spat in the other's face, and two young officers tried to keep them at bay.

An exhausted looking officer stood behind a desk writing in a book.

“My name is Doctor John Watson. I'm here on an urgent matter. Is D.I. Reid around?” I enquired.

The man looked up.

In a raspy voice, he replied: “He ought to be in his office, sir.” He pointed in the right direction. I nodded and hurried down the corridor till I came upon his office. The door was shut. I knocked. I heard rustling, and the door was flung open. A tall man stood before me with dark bags under his bloodshot eyes, a wild beard, and disheveled clothes. It looked worn and exhausted, a man who has not touched a decent plate of food in several weeks.