The Murder of Mary Russell (32 page)

“But boss, wha'—”

“Naouw!”

The feet shuffled out, the door shut. When The Bishop spoke again, his words had fewer glottal stops and more syllables.

“Grandson, eh? Seems ta me young Samuel's a shade closer to…our mootchual friend than a ‘nephew.' ”

“I don't believe it matters one way or the other. It's Samuel McKenna I'm trying to trace.”

“Lost him, 'ave ye?”

“You knew he was coming to see me?”

“ 'E seemed bent in that d'rection.”

“Did you send him?”

“I never sent no one. We got an agreement, you and me.”

“And you've never gone back on it?”

“Never needed to yet.”

Holmes searched the man's face, checked his hands and posture. When someone like The Bishop lied, it was usually blatant: why pretend, when you could just crush the person you were talking to, instead? Which meant the man was unpractised at earnest deception—and at the moment, he appeared sincere.

“You did not aim Samuel Hudson at my household?”

“Bugger me, man, I got enough problems on me 'ands wifout that. I take it the lad come to your door and raised a stink, then?”

The first part of the statement rang true; the second revealed a trace of slyness.

“You did not send him, but you knew he was coming to see me.”

“Not you, mate. Your 'ousekeeper. C'mon, Mr 'Olmes,” he urged with an uncomfortable laugh, “you can't think
I
sent him? 'E knew all about you.”

“So why did he come
here
?”

“ 'Ere to Lonnun, or 'ere to me?”

“Both.”

“You really
don't
know nuffin, do ya? Anyways, it's the same thing. 'E come about 'is granddad's money.”

“What money?”

“Well, that's the intrestin' question, innit?” Again, the knowing look.

“Why did he think James Hudson had money?”

“Ah, see, Jim wrote a letter to 'is daughter—the one in Synney? Summat about borrowin' gelt off a shady lender. Which ain't a nice way to talk about the Gov'ner, but I guess Sammy asked some friends a' his about who'd'a been 'ere, back in them days, to lend a man money, and 'e come up wif first the Gov'ner, then me.”

“James Hudson wrote to his daughter about borrowing money from your father? When?”

“Not long afore he disappeared. And it waren't in so many words, I don' think. But yeah, enough to lay one end of a tread 'ere. So old Sam 'Udson could put two an' two togevver and follow it to my front door.”

This conversation was not going as Holmes had anticipated. He'd come prepared to rip the lies out of The Bishop, confronting the man with the treaty violations and letting him know that the wrath of the gods was about to descend. But if Samuel Hudson already knew about his mother, and if The Bishop had
not
been co-conspirator in the attempted abduction, or murder…

Holmes realised that he had been on the brink of that perennial trap: theorising in advance of one's data. He took a mental step back, and picked up the last hint The Bishop had given him.

“Why would Samuel Hudson come looking for money his grandfather had borrowed from you?”

But the pause had been enough to give The Bishop a sense of change from his opponent, a drawing-in of threat. He ventured a question of his own. “Look, I done nuffin 'ere but tell you wat you wanted t' know. How 'bout you answerin' one for me? When old Sam come to see you, what did 'e want?”

There was tension behind the feigned nonchalance, Holmes thought. What was this hideous old villain after? He proceeded with caution. “Why should he have wanted anything, apart from seeing his…aunt?”

“ 'E dint ask you nuffin? No casual conversation, like? About old cases and such like?”

“Which old case might that be?”

The Bishop seemed torn between a desire for information and a reluctance to reveal his interests. In the end, need won out. “The 'Udson one. Jimmy 'Udson's money.”

Holmes did not have to pretend his incomprehension, although he expected The Bishop would take it as pretence. “You'll have to give me more than that before I can answer you.”

The rolls of flesh convulsed in a brief expression of fury. Then the man sat forward on his throne, his voice soft, as if his men might have their ears to the wall. “Jim Hudson wasn't the only bastid to run out on me. I think you'll know the name Prendergast?”

Holmes' head came sharply up.

“Prenderga—”
he began to exclaim.

“Sst!” The Bishop hissed, cutting him off with a hard glance at the door.

Holmes did not lower his voice. “You're interested in
that
? Good Lord. The money Jack Prendergast stole went down with the
Gloria Scott,
seventy years ago.”

“You know that for sure, d'ya? You were there to see it?”

“I looked at it very closely, I assure you. In any event, there were but a small handful of survivors. Did any of them behave as if they had a quarter million pounds to their name?”

“No. But they wouldn't of if they was smart.”

Sherlock Holmes had to concede the point: the best way—the only way—to hide a fortune is to act as if it did not exist. He would not have expected the gross old man on the gilt throne to understand that. Still, it was hardly relevant here.

“The ship went down,” he said. “There was nothing but the ship's boat with a few survivors.”

“Prendergast made 'is money nice and portable, like.”

“So?”

The grotesque expression that passed over the rolls of fat, Holmes decided after a moment, had been a wink.

“Am I to understand that you believe your father was linked to Jack Prendergast in some way? Bank fraud was not exactly The Bishop's métier.” Prendergast's financial jiggery-pokery had been both extremely clever and set amongst the highest levels of the banking industry: what had either to do with an East End crime boss?

“Right you are,” the old man's son replied. “Bit above the Gov'ner's station, like. But even bankers got what you might call outside interests. Any road, Prendergast knew the Gov'ner. The two of 'em talked in this very room. I was a kid—couldn't'a been more'n twelve—but it'd be around the time the job was runnin'. I 'member the argy-bargy when he got hisself nicked. Prendergast was here,” he repeated firmly, emphasising the fact with a pronunciation of the
h
.

“Very well. But why do you think your father had anything to do with the fraud?”

“He dint. Like you said, not his mettyer. But once the money was in Prendergast's hands, what'd he do with it? And the Gov'ner knowed
somefing,
the old bastid, just on the fringes of the action, like. I dunno—'e mighta gave Prendergast some bright ideas, made some introductions, anyfing. But whatevver, I know 'e hant a clue how bloody
big
the thing was until Prendergast got nicked. Jeez Mary, I thought the old man's heart was gonna stop then and there. An' all through the trial and after Prendergast was lagged off Down Under, the Gov'ner kept 'is ear to the ground. An' never stopped, even after that boat went down.

“ 'E allus swore that Prendergast 'ad put all that money into
some
form that'd travel light—passbook, bank notes, that kinda thing. Diamonds, maybe. Used ta talk about how the cove dint necess'rily have it on the boat with 'im—could of left it to be posted to him Down Under. And even if 'e did have it, summat like that could float, couldn't it? Dint need nuffin but a sharp eye to spot 'em and a quick hand to pluck 'em out the wreckage. Yes, Mr 'Olmes, the Gov'ner went to 'is grave believin' that Prendergast money was out there somewhere.

“And me? Well, I'm a sensible man. All them years and no breath of it, I more or less decided, like you, that it's sunk to the bottom of the briny, waitin' for some fella with one a them sub-marine boats ta go after it. And then be damned if Mr Sam 'Udson don't walk up, bold as brass, to say how his granddad'd got a serious amount of money, and did I have any idea where it might be?”

“I met James Hudson twenty-four years after the
Gloria Scott
went down,” Holmes said carefully. “He had no money at all.”

“Then 'e found it just after, 'cause 'cording to Samuel, 'is letter said 'e 'ad a ruddy fortune droppin' out of the sky. All 'e had to do was get back Down Under to cash it in.”

Over the course of The Bishop's peroration, Sherlock Holmes had begun to feel decidedly ill at ease. He'd come here unarmed and unafraid, trusting in the fat old villain's self-interest to ensure that he would walk out again. But this was another matter entirely. This was compulsion, fantasy—madness. Like walking into a room and having it erupt into flames.

The obsession this Bishop had inherited—rendered dormant by the years—had been galvanised by the arrival of Samuel Hudson. The fat hands gripping the throne arms, those piggy eyes gleaming with passion: mania was building around him like an electric charge. Hair rose on Holmes' scalp.

Think,
he commanded his brain: rage, hate, love—and fear. Strong emotions to stimulate the adrenal glands, weapons in the hand of a thoughtful man, a delusion in the mind of a criminal.

Think!
The Bishop had found a kindred soul in Samuel Hudson, criminal to criminal. Had he dangled that mind-warping sum in front of the Australian, sparking the greed in both of them, and sent Hudson to Sussex in search of it?

Speak—now!
“You think Prendergast converted his stolen fortune into a bank passbook or the like. Is that what Samuel Hudson came to me for?”

“ 'E dint tell you?”

“Our conversation was…limited.”

“Sammy knew there was money, just not 'ow much, or where it come from. Once I told him what he'd be lookin' for, 'e seemed ta think 'e knew where it was—but I told 'im it wouldn't be enough. That wifout what I knew, 'e'd be barking up a tree. 'E'll be back, when 'e finds I'm right.”

“So what did he not know?”

“Sonefing the Gov'ner figgered out.”

“And what was that?”

But there, The Bishop drew the line. “I ain't gonna tell you that. If I did—” The old man stopped abruptly, eyes narrowing to slits. Holmes felt coldness stir within, and fought to keep it from his face. “Did Sammy tell you? 'Is part of the puzzle, I mean?”

The cold seemed to spread. “I take it Mr Hudson did not share his heart fully with you, either?”

“ 'E let me know 'e was hidin' somethin', just like I let 'im know I had somethin' up m'own sleeve. Did 'e tell
you
what it was? Maybe your conversation weren't really ‘limited.' Maybe you and 'im 'ad a nice long talk, and maybe you and 'im thought, we can cut The Bishop out. All we gotta do is get the old man to let slip what 'e knows.”

If The Bishop believed for one instant that Sherlock Holmes could point him towards the hidden treasure he had pined over for seventy years, he'd call his men in and take this amateur detective to pieces, heedless of the storm that Holmes' death would bring down. Lust of that degree was a thing Sherlock Holmes had seen often enough to recognise it, to fear it—and to know that a show of fear was what set it off.

So he locked his dread deep below the surface and crossed his legs in a display of negligence, one foot bouncing a little to illustrate the meditative process.

“You say you may have a key piece of this puzzle?” he asked at last.

The Bishop saw only a sort of scholarly interest. Slowly, he nodded, causing the chins to wobble.

“One you think Samuel Hudson will need if he is to lay hands on that two hundred fifty thousand pounds?”

Even within the folds of skin, Holmes could see The Bishop's pupils flare at the sum. “Pretty sure,” he said.

“Can you just tell me—not the thing itself, but what it concerns?”

If the answer was “Clarissa Hudson,” The Bishop was a dead man. But it was not.

“I know 'oo Samuel's father is.”

Holmes blinked. “And knowing that might lead Samuel to the money?”

“Combined with what 'e has, I'd guess so.”

“And did you tell him what it is that you know?”

“I did not.”

Two criminals, each with incomplete knowledge, both wishing to get the other's information while leading him away from the goal.

Time for a risk—calculated, yes, but a risk nonetheless. Holmes put on a look of reluctant agreement, and asked, “I suppose that if the monies were found, and returned to their original investors, you would like a commission? A generous percentage, of course, by way of reward?”

The Bishop came very close to explosion, at the thought of losing what he saw as his money. But Holmes' businesslike attitude—and the word “generous”—delayed him long enough to let thought catch up with emotion: if
Sherlock Holmes
was treating this dream seriously…

And with thought came a voice of rationality. No one in London—certainly no London criminal—would believe that Holmes could be tempted by money, even a quarter million pounds of the stuff. Still, if the great Sherlock Holmes was offering to aid in the recovery of £250,000—The Bishop's face cleared.

“The blokes who owned it'll be long dead,” he pointed out.

“Their heirs, then,” Holmes said as if in agreement. “I'm sure that would be quite satisfactory. Very well. I agree to see if I can locate Mr Hudson, and act to broker whatever clues you and he might be able to put together to retrieve the Prendergast fortune. Perhaps he'll show up in Sussex. Again.”

He rose, as if agreement had been reached. The Bishop wavered: letting go of Holmes had to be a mistake, but…
a quarter million pounds
. Even a slice of that was better than what he had now. He waved a hand with a gesture worthy of kings.