Sherlock Holmes and The Scarlet Thread of Murder (9 page)

“May I help you?” he asked groggily.

“I am Doctor John Watson. Are you D.I. Reid?” I asked. The man nodded. “I am here to speak with you about the explosion at the station a few months back. We might be honing in on the one responsible.”

Reid's eyes ignited as if he was a prisoner of war, trapped in a dark pit and the light of freedom had fallen upon his face. He motioned me to enter.

***

He asked me to remain in the office while he went to fetch someone. The echoes from the chaos came down the hall as I waited. A few moments later, Reid returned with a bespectacled ginger man.

“This is Doctor Vigo White,” Reid said, taking a seat across from me. “This is Doctor John Watson. He wishes to speak about the explosion. I thought it best if you joined us.”

“I work alongside Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“The bohemian detective of Baker Street?” White asked.

“The very one,” I returned.

“Aha! So you're that John Watson!” A grin lit up White's face.

“I am he.”

“Continue, Doctor,” said Reid.

“A man named David Daniels came to us and told us about a haunting which had befallen him. As Holmes and I looked into the case, Daniels became more panicked, and we eventually found him dead, hanged by his own hand. However, I noticed a purple discolouring upon his skin and, upon closer examination, I discovered that he had been poisoned - Inspector Lestrade is conducting his own examination to be sure, but I know this to be true,”

“A purple discolouring, you say?” White asked.

“Yes. The poison came from a flower found in Afghanistan. We discovered that a man by the name of Phillias Jackson had worked for Mr. Daniels and his partner Thomas Goodtree in their shipping and imports factory over on Nine Elms. It was further discovered by Investigator Martin Hewitt that Jackson was having an affair with Mrs. Goodtree, who is now with Jackson's child. Before Daniels and Goodtree's deaths, they fired Jackson from his position over a disagreement in his work contract, so far as we know. Now it seems that Jackson had been importing this deadly flower along with accumulating a large amount of explosive powder from a company called Burkum and Lynn. Inspector Lestrade has informed Mr. Holmes that Jackson's body washed up by the Tower of London this morning. He and Mr. Hewitt are at the Yard now, looking over the body. Holmes believes Jackson is responsible for the explosion. We have a sample of the powder that was found at Jackson's lodgings. We need to cross check it against whatever you have.”

“Can I see the sample?” Mr. White asked. I nodded and withdrew the envelope Holmes had given me.

“Mr White, test its value at once,” Reid ordered. White left the room in a rush, and Reid turned to me. “Doctor. Tell me more of this man, Jackson. What does he look like?”

“From what Hewitt was told, he is a tall, dark whiskered man, who is often seen wearing a bowler hat,” said I.

“Many men are seen wearing such hats. I have one behind you on the peg, and I have dark whiskers too. You see the problem?”

“Yes, I do. However, your bowler hat does not have a playing card pinned to it. Jackson's does.”

“A card pinned to it, you say?” Reid sat back in his chair and stroked his beard. “I know this description. This man was seen with a man called Lamech the night before the Whitechapel explosion. However, the sole difference is that the man was said to have a severe scar upon this face. My man, White, recognised the make of explosive, or at least part of it, which led us to Lamech, a Jewish Anarchist. This man Lamech, as you may have seen in the papers some time ago, was killed. He was poisoned. White did the autopsy, and Lamech's symptoms were similar to Daniels'; a discolouring of the skin, the appearance of mental illness.” Reid lifted his eyes as Mr White came back through the door.

“No doubt. The powder is the same,” confirmed White. “Could be a coincidence - Burkum and Lynn are very well known.”

“It's no coincidence,” said Reid.

“A Jewish anarchist who builds bombs dies by the same poison that Daniels dies from. Goodtree dies in an explosion cause by an explosive connected to this anarchist. Connecting all three of these men is this Phillias Jackson who had gone missing and is now dead on a slab at Scotland Yard,” said I.

“And this anarchist was seen in the company of a dark whiskered man in a bowler hat with a card pinned to it the night before he died, which was also the night before the station explosion,” said Reid. He rubbed the sides of his head in annoyance. “Jackson is dead, which means we have another killer and another loose end to this case.”

“Could it be the anarchists?” I asked.

“It's possible, but they have been out of sight since just after the explosion. They fled the city and haven't been seen or heard of since.”

“Who else would want to see Jackson dead, if he is the one who killed this man, Lamech?”

“True, but what was Jackson's motive, though?” Reid questioned. “Why did he kill Daniels and Goodtree? I understand he impregnated Goodtree's wife, so perhaps he wanted to have her to himself. But why get rid of Daniels, other than payback for firing him?”

“Mr. Holmes has asked that you come and see him right away at the Yard. You can see the body there. There could be lead,” said I.

“No more time shall be wasted here then,” said Reid. White nodded.

Reid and Mr. White gathered themselves, putting on their coats and hats. Reid stuffed a few papers into a case, White had a Gladstone bag in hand, and we hastily took a maria to the Yard.

Chapter 14

Mr. Brett

The Unexpected State of Mrs. Goodtree

Autumn 1890

I departed from Doctor Watson at Victoria Station. I grabbed another cab from outside, and told him to waste no time. The hour was getting late, and I could hear the chime of Big Ben ringing as the clock struck at quarter to six. I made my way past Trafalgar Square and towards Oxford St. turning up Baker Street and then towards Regent's Park. Following the outer circle, we came to Primrose Hill and quickly upon Elsworth Road. We stopped outside Chester House, and I dashed out.

I rapped upon the door impatiently but no answer came. I pulled my watch and glanced at the time. Thirty minute had passed since I left Victoria. With every tick of the watch I grew impatient. I beat upon the door once more. There was no response. Could she have gone out? I speculated. I gave the door a final pounding.

“Mrs Goodtree?” I shouted as I leaned closer to the door. “It is I, Mr Brett. Investigator Hewitt sent me.”

I pushed the door, but it didn't budge. I motioned to the cabbie to wait. Four houses up, there was an alley. I walked around and counted the houses back in order to find Mrs. Goodtree's. A brick wall rose six feet, topped with jagged stones. Climbing was not an option, unless I wished to seriously injure myself. There were, however, wooden doors leading into the back gardens.

I tried the Goodtrees'; it was locked. I raised my leg and thrust it through the door. A shooting pain went straight up my left leg. I bent over in pain, clutching my knee. Despite having a pile of crime and adventure novels at home, I had not realised how painful some of the antics were until I tried them myself. When the pain subsided, I realised that my actions had been a success. The door was swinging open. I limped through the garden to the backdoor. As assumed, it too was locked. There was a window that led into a sitting room of sorts. I put my fingers at the base of the window and lifted. To my relief, the window rose with ease. I painfully climbed in and landed clumsily on the floor.

I walked through the house, looking for any sign of Mrs Goodtree. The kitchen was in a terrible state of disorganisation and untidiness. There were dishes layered in mould, rotting bread, and fruit with swarms of flies. I noticed a thick layer of dust upon the counters and furniture in the other rooms. This was no state for a pregnant woman, or indeed anyone to be living in.

Upstairs, I stepped into a study. I assumed it was Mr Goodtree's. The room was in a sorry state. Shelves, which I pictured could have been filled with books, were now empty. The floor had become the new resting place of dozens of books. A sitting chair had been knocked over, and the curtains that hung in the window were ripped and hanging loosely. A small table by one of the windows held a few dotted bottles. A crystal bottle had been smashed against the wall, and the aroma of stale alcohol lingered in the air. A desk in the room appeared to have been riffled through. There was a stack of legal papers which, upon examining, I realised pertained to Goodtree and Daniels' business. I could not be sure what the cause for this mess was. Foul play was certainly an option, or someone on a rampage. I noticed a card for the Peckham Liberal Club. Despite having a fair knowledge of London societies, I could not recall having heard of such a club. Next to the desk was a waste bin filled with papers. A letterhead featured the same design as that upon the liberal club's card. I picked the letter out of the bin and read:

“
Mr. Goodtree,
” it began. “
The actions of your associate, Mr. Jackson, are beyond repentance. It was our good nature that allowed him into the club. He has in every way disrespected us, and betrayed you. Thus we demand his immediate removal from the club. He has brought insult upon us all. You have one day to respond informing Mr. Brown of Jackson
's demise.”

The letter was signed “
Osgen
”

I was startled when I heard a rattling. I tucked the letter into my pocket and stepped out into the hall. To my surprised I saw Mrs. Goodtree standing in a doorway. She was dressed in a dark blue sleeping gown; her hair was disheveled and untidy, and there were dark bags under her eyes. One of her sleeves was rolled up, and I noticed red spots on her arm; cocaine. She leaned against the frame with half-open eyes.

“I lost it...” she said in a sober tone, her gaze adrift.

“What have you lost?” I asked her in bewilderment.

“
It
! I lost
it
!” she violently yelled back.

She began to sway, and I ran over to her. She collapsed into my arms. She was shaking. How could this be the same woman who had sat in Mr. Hewitt's chambers just a short time ago? Consciousness was lost to her, so I carried her back into the room. Her body was burning with fever. I picked up a long coat, which had been tossed onto the floor, and wrapped it around her. Her house was in no state for her to remain there. Doctor Watson, I thought, would be the best man to look her over. I carried her down to the cabbie, who looked at me with a mixture of surprise and horror.

“This is not my doing, you fool,” I sneered at him putting her inside. He scowled.

“I'm not having no part of whatever business yer up too,” he said, stepping down from his seat to make a statement.

I could feel Mrs. Goodtree shaking.

“I said,
don't
be a fool! I need you to take us to Scotland Yard at once!”

“To the Yard?”

“I suppose you do not wish to take me there?” I returned. “She needs aid, and the one who I need is there!”

The cabbie looked at me a moment and stroked his beard.

“Very well.” He took his seat again.

I situated Mrs Goodtree in the cab and knocked on the roof, telling the driver to go. Mrs Goodtree rested in my arms. Her forehead was dripping with sweat. She began to moan as we raced down the streets. She suddenly woke, screaming in a panic. She swung her arms in a fit. I tried to grab them and hold her down, but took several blows from the hysterical woman.

“All will be well, Mrs Goodtree, it will be.” I tried to assure her, but she was not responsive. She squirmed and struggled before calming down. She was pressed against the other side of the cab. Her chest violently moved up and down as she tried to catch her breath.

“What... what am I doing here?” she mumbled in her delirium. Her eyes were rolling in her head.

“I'm taking you to a doctor, Mrs Goodtree,” I informed her.

“A doctor... they can't save me... I lost it. I already lost it,” she mumbled. Her head began to bob back and forth. “Oh dear...” Her eyes rolled back as she fainted and fell towards me. I put her back in her seat. The fever had overcome her.

“What are you two doing back there?” the cabbie yelled.

“The woman had a moment of hysteria. Press on to the Yard, make haste!” I shouted back.

Chapter 15

Doctor Watson

The Body of Phillias Jackson

Autumn 1890

“They are in here,” said the officer as he escorted Reid, White, and myself into an examination room. Inside stood Inspector Lestrade, Holmes, and Hewitt. On a table lay a corpse. Holmes leaned against a counter, smoking a pipe. Hewitt was bending over the body, examining it. Lestrade stood at the foot of the examination table. We were greeted as we entered.

“Ah, Mr Reid, good of you to come,” Lestrade said, walking over and shaking his hand. “And who is this?” he asked, referring to the red-headed scientist.

“I am Vigo White, associate of Mr Reid.”

“I asked him to join,” Reid said.

“It seems we all have our associates here, apart from yours, Mr Hewitt,” commented Holmes.

“Brett shouldn't be long I suspect,” said Hewitt. He pulled his fob watch from his waistcoat and looked at it intensely.

“Mr Holmes, Mr Hewitt,” Reid said with a nod at the other men, “it's good to make your acquaintance.”

“I take it that Doctor Watson filled you in on all our happenings?” Holmes asked.

“He has, indeed,” Reid affirmed.

“Care to examine the body, Doctor?” Inspector Lestrade asked.

“I would, yes.” I walked over and looked upon the body of Phillias Jackson.

“Mind if I take a look too?” White asked.