Sherlock Holmes in Something the Cat Dragged In (5 page)

Western leaned over the table and met my gaze. “That's so. I may never have my rights to it, but at least no one else shall be called its master. The family who farm the land care for it well, and the staff keeps old Marshford Hall as best they can. Any new owner may well dispossess them, and that would be ill-done.” His drawn face displayed a bitter grief I thought he demonstrated to few. “I love it, but despite my efforts the estate may be lost to me and old friends forced to go homeless.”

I leaned forward. “Tell me.”

He did so. Once he finished we parted, and I hastily returned to Holmes with the address, as well as another piece of news that Western had received from one of his acquaintances just before we separated.

“This man told Western that Brand was terrified and cursing his employer, whom he claims attacked him.”

Holmes pursed his lips. “Well, Siddons was found dead, so it is not unlikely that whoever is behind this has decided that dead men tell no tales. We must find Brand at once. Come, Watson, the game's afoot!”

I hailed a cab, gave the address, and the driver looked at us doubtfully. “Sure you want to go there, guv? It ain't exactly Mayfair.”

Holmes regarded him. “You may be right. Take us to Scotland Yard, and make your best speed.” And quietly to me, he added, “I had forgot Lestrade, who has a right to be with us. The man speaks sense, too, for if Brand is as panicked as Western's acquaintance says, in that area of the city he could raise a mob against us.”

* * * *

Lestrade wasted no time once we were shown to his office and explained our errand. In minutes he rounded up half a dozen strong constables, arranged for a diversion a street over from where Brand hid, and bundled everyone into two vans heading for Brand's address: a block of single rooms let at usurious rents.

All worked well. We three slipped into the building. A woman stuck her head into the corridor to see who was on the stairs, took one look at us, and vanished like a rabbit into its burrow. Plainclothes Lestrade might be, but she recognized a copper when she saw one, as she was stridently telling someone when we passed her door.

Lestrade slipped to one side, pressed against the wall as Holmes tapped on the door to Persimmon Brand's room. After a pause in which we could almost feel the panic we inspired, a voiced quavered a question.

“Who is it?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” my friend replied. “You know of me, Brand. If you want to live the night out, let me and my friend in.”

A chain rattled and the door opened a few inches, a portion of wan face showing at the gap. Brand stared at us.

“Yes, it's you, Mr. Holmes. All right, you an' your friend can come in.”

He opened his mouth to protest when Lestrade followed us in, but then said nothing; no doubt he felt even entertaining a police detective could not make his life worse. The room stank. It was small, bare, and the only window faced a brick wall only yards away.

Persimmon Brand was a rat of a man who looked to be in his fifties, difficult as it was to be certain. He fitted the description given us, but had in addition straggly hair and a few rotten teeth, and was permeated with a powerful aroma of drink and dirt. One arm was tied up in a filthy rag that showed bloodstains, which confirmed what we'd been told. Holmes seated himself cautiously on a broken-backed chair and spoke to the shivering man who leaned against the wall eyeing us.

“Lord Northgate's papers. How did you take them, and who helped?”

Brand drew himself up. “No one helped me, Mr. Holmes. They was having a big party, I slipped in an' I got upstairs. I hid in that room where he've all them toy soldiers. He had a couple'a friends come there with him, showed them the papers and where they was, and once they was gone and the house quiet, all I had to do was open that box and take them. Didn't cost me but two er three minutes,”

That disposed of the possible dishonest servant. But… Holmes asked the question I was thinking.

“How did you know about the papers, Brand?”

That brought a long-winded explanation that boiled down to the following: a gentleman approached Brand claiming to be a friend of Lord Northgate; they shared common interests, he said, and a large wager was at stake. The gentleman had explained that they played a game, he, Northgate, and several others. They used toy soldiers and pretended to attack and defend various countries. Northgate had developed a strategy that he boasted could not be beaten. All that was required was for Brand to enter the house, find the papers, and bring them to the gentleman. Brand would be very handsomely paid for this, and would risk little since the papers were of no actual value. Even if he were caught with the papers, he was more likely to be tossed down the steps by the servants than be charged with theft.

Holmes looked at him. “Although the papers were of little intrinsic value, they may involve us in another war. I tell you, the death of every man who may be caught up in such an event would be on your head.”

Brand cringed, panting in his anxiety. “I know, I know now. Jeb Siddons heard sommat and he told me. I went back to the gentleman and said that as the papers wasn't what he'd said they was, I should have more money. An' he shot me! I only got away because I were standing by the window an' I jumped out and ran. I bin hiding this past two days and I hear as Jeb were knifed. You gotta help me, or I'll be next.”

“What do you know of a detective and Lord Northgate?”

“They come looking. I was told by the man as employed me, he said the gentleman were at Jeb's place when they came in and the lord, he said, ‘You, I know you!' And the gentleman hit him. Must'a had something in his hand 'cos he didn't hit that hard, but the flash cove, he dropped like a stone. Jeb, he clobbered the detective and he put them in the shed a whiles. The gentleman, he went away, then come back and him and some man Jeb never met afore carried the lord out. Gentleman said as how the police didn't know him but this cove did, and he couldn't take the risk.”

“So we can add murder to any charges,” Lestrade said, his tone deadly.

“No, no!” It was the squeal of a rat. “Jeb told me m'employer didn't go to kill the lord, like. Said he'd just hold him awhile until he got the papers away to someone who'd pay for them. Said it was a nuisance, but his usual method had gone astray, an' it was taking time to set up another route.”

“What did you think he meant by that?” I asked.

“I dunno, mebbe the police took up someone, mebbe whoever it were got cold feet. I dunno, I swear on me muvver's grave!”

“Your mother,” my friend said delicately, “is in excellent health and employed at a certain establishment in Finchley.”

Brand stared at us. “I dunno nothing more,” he said flatly. “He tricked me, Mr. Holmes, told me them papers wasn't nothing valuable, now I got a hole in me arm and the whole place is looking fer me, me mate's dead, and I never got half the money I were promised fer them papers.”

“You know one thing that may help save your louse-ridden hide,” Lestrade said, his voice almost gentle. “Describe the gentleman who tricked you. I want to know his coloring, his height and build, how he dresses, speaks, and any trick of his behavior. If you can give a good account of him, I don't say you'll be let off, but we'll go far easier on you
and
we'll take you someplace safe right after you've talked.”

“I'll talk,” Brand said sullenly. “You'll keep me safe after that?” Lestrade nodded. “All right, like I say, he's a gentleman, but there's something about him. He ain't English, I reckon. He speaks like a toff, but a bit
too
swell, if you get me.”

We all nodded, well aware of that excessively perfect English many well-educated foreigners spoke.

Brand continued. “His clothes is the same. Fancy, but there's something about them, they ain't Bond Street, if you gets my meaning.” Again we indicated that we did, while Lestrade exchanged a meaningful look with Holmes.

Brand favored us with a burst of frankness. “Fact is, I wondered if he
were
English, but no matter, there didn't seem to be no harm in what he wanted, and the gentry sometimes has odd friends anyhow.”

“What name did he give you?”

“Said to call him Ivanhoe.” After a second of astonishment all three of us burst out laughing, while Brand stared in bewilderment. “What's so funny?”

I took it upon myself to explain. “It's the name of a character and a book by a famous writer.”

Brand continued to look baffled. The man had probably never read a book in his life, and would certainly not know of Sir Walter Scott's charming historical fantasy of knights and their ladies.

Brand shrugged off our peculiarities and continued once we had ceased our merriment. “He's mebbe in his middling thirties—bloody toffs, they never looks their age. Blue eyes, fairish hair, holds himself well, and walks a bit funny.”

Lestrade stared. “Walks funny? What do you mean by that?”

“I dunno, just, he walks funny.”

Holmes intervened. “Like this?” he asked, striding the five paces that was all the room would allow.

Brand shifted to avoid Holmes as he moved and yelped his approval. “Yes! That's it. How'd you know, Mr. Holmes?”

“Never mind. Now, the gentleman came and went at Siddons's place. How much did Siddons know? Who did he approach first, you or Siddons?”

“It were Jeb. He gets—got all sorts at his place, did Jeb. Lot'a sailors, some of them from foreign ships, like. Told Jeb he were looking for someone as could get into places, an' Jeb had a word with me. Once all the argy bargy started Jeb weren't happy, told the gentleman to get the flash cove and his man outa his place, and said if'n he didn't, he'd mebbe have a word to say somewheres. Gentleman took the lord away and said he'd come back for the other.”

That explained why Jeb had been stabbed; he'd threatened to talk once, and now that Len Rogers had been found and Jeb had something to bargain with, “Ivanhoe” couldn't afford to leave Jeb alive and able to identify him. I'd got that far in my cogitations when Holmes shouted, flung himself forward, and Persimmon Brand leaped backwards, his shoulders pressing flat against the grimy window-glass. A crack sounded, of the type with which we were all familiar, and Brand dropped, limp. I crouched and pulled the body from directly before the window, checking the wound. It was no use. Brand was dead if ever a man was, drilled neatly through the head.

Lestrade said something I will not repeat and jumped for the door, thundering down the stairs, yelling for his men, and Holmes turned to me. “Go over the body and take anything that seems odd or informative, while I check this room.”

We had completed our search by the time our friend was back, red-faced and muttering. “He's got clean away. Oh, he was seen, all of them can give a description too; he was a tall, short, fat, thin man. He was wearing a tweed suit, overalls, and dressed fit for a wedding. He's got blue, brown eyes, a hawk, snub nose, brown, black, blond hair, and he was carrying a cane, a bucket and mop, a stepladder, a briefcase, three watermelons, and a bunch of b----- roses.”

I patted his shoulder wordlessly. How typical of the public: they see but they do not observe, to coin a phrase.

We left the body to be removed to the morgue, and repaired by cab to Lestrade's office for a restorative cup of tea—in his case—and a whisky and soda in ours.

One of the constables came galloping in. “Sir, there's a man asking for you.”

I will pass over much of that conversation. The man was one of Northgate's older relatives. He seemed to think that Lestrade should have found his relation by now, and that he can't have been trying. Why, it had been days now, and if he couldn't do the job perhaps he should ask the Commissioner to find an officer who could, and, eyeing us with deep suspicion, who were these strangers hanging about? Did Lestrade have nothing to do but socialize? And on and on. Lestrade listened without complaint and passed us an envelope, all the while nodding his head to the points made.

Holmes caught my look and we left in silence. Once out in the street I expressed my feelings. “I wouldn't be a police officer for double their pay,” I said angrily. “Does he think they do nothing?”

“Yes,” Holmes said simply. “To any person, their case is the most important, and if it is not immediately solved, it is because of the officer's incompetence, not because it is difficult, or the perpetrator is clever, or the crime was random. Much is expected of the police for their small wages. But before Mr. Ivanhoe shot Brand, we received useful information.”

“Do you think that Ivanhoe is Russian?” I questioned. “Ivan is a common name there, I believe, and that fact could have influenced him.”

“That is true, but I think he took the name from the book as a jab at us and our English ideas of honor and chivalry, rather than any reflection of his own country. No, Watson, I think it more likely that he is an agent of another country entirely.” Here he mentioned the name and I nodded agreement.

“Very likely. But what makes you think so?”

Holmes glanced quickly around us. No one stood close enough to hear, but he lowered his voice nonetheless. “I believe that, poor though Brand's description was, both Lestrade and I have some idea of who this man may be. Maximillian Liebowitcz comes of a good continental family, but nowadays he specializes in procuring and selling weapons for smaller countries that have a sudden need. He is an agent for his country, but does such trade on the side and would know where to go with such an interesting tale. Who better than someone like that to be in a position to hear of Lord Northgate's hobby?”

That made sense to me, but I voiced my second thought. “Would such a man have the ear of someone who'd pay well for what is only, after all, a mere game?”