A Biased Judgement Page 3

  Her nightgown lay in tatters and she was almost entirely naked. The killer had stabbed her repeatedly in the breasts, belly and buttocks. He had then cut her throat, but I suspected she was dead from the first blow which had almost certainly punctured her heart. There was a strand of red hair in her right hand.

  The footprints on the floor showed two pairs of boots: a square-toed size nine, and a round-toed size eight. The larger shoe wearer was pigeon-toed.

  “Write this down,” I said to the Inspector. “You are looking for two men. One is five foot nine and weighs approximately ten stone. He is right handed, has red hair and is a Roman Catholic. He has a permanently slack lower jaw and an unfortunate over-production of saliva. These in combination cause him to drool and make sucking noises. He’s also slightly pigeon-toed. This fine gentleman carries a Bowie knife which he stole from an American tourist. He then stabbed that gentleman to death with his own blade. It was about two years ago; Lestrade’s case. He can fill you in on the particulars. This beauty is the knife-man and if you act swiftly you may find him on the Portabello Road.

  “His companion is five-foot-seven, weighs nine stone, and is missing his front left tooth. His lower teeth are very uneven. He carries a gun but has never been known to use it. Indeed, he generally just keep watch while his companion does his filthy work. You’ll recognise him at once because his features are permanently fixed in a grotesque smile.”

  “Good Lord,” said Hill. “You are everything I was told, Mr Holmes. No wonder they call you the Elder Statesman down at the Yard.”

  “Elder Statesman?”

  “You have been an enormous help, Mr Holmes. Would you mind telling me how you knew all that?”

  “Well, the cigarette on the front doorstep was my first clue. That wet tip shows the smoker has an over-secretion of saliva over which he has no control.

  “There was a red hair in the dead woman’s hand, plucked from the head of her killer. I have already explained about the blade and the bite mark on the apple which you were clever enough to realise was brought here by one of the killers... What else? Ah, the footprints reveal height and weight - it’s a simple calculation based on shoe size and length of the stride. They also show the killer’s pigeon-toed walk.”

  “But Catholic? The grotesque smile?”

  Watson said, “You really ought to tell him, Holmes.”

  “Well, I did mention Lestrade’s case from two years ago... The truth is, Inspector, I know both of these gentlemen. They are called Hacker and Smiley.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr Holmes?”

  “Herbert Hacker and Harold Smiley: they are your killers. Well, Hacker is the killer; Smiley only comes along to rob. I suspected it was them before I even set foot in here, Inspector. When you see a Woodbine with a wet tip you can be fairly sure that Hacker has been around.

  “The type of knife was the next clue. Hacker has a fondness for that particular blade. You might call it his trademark. Then there’s the murder of the woman: there is a deviance to it, wouldn’t you agree? Particularly in the way the breasts were almost slashed off. Hacker has a pronounced hatred of women and he seldom changes his pattern of attack.”

  “He’s well-named,” said Hill.

  “Oh, Hacker isn’t his real name. It’s Ryan. But everyone knows him as ‘Hacker’ for his style of assault. Likewise, ‘Smiley’ is really Harold Jones, but he earned his nickname because he has never been seen without that smile on his face. Smiley is a safe-cracker by trade, but he won’t let Hacker go out alone. Perhaps he considers it a matter of friendship.

  “They’re well-known, Inspector. If you act swiftly enough you may catch them before they flee the country. They’re very good at lying low. It’s the only reason they haven’t yet faced the noose. Send your men to Portobello Road and you may catch them.”

  I glanced around the room again. The pale sunlight filtering in through the windows seemed to make the scene even more terrible.

  With a mere nod of his head, Hill sent his two uniformed men off to do as I suggested. A man with easy command, then. I think we shall hear more from young Tavistock Hill. But at that moment my thoughts were busy elsewhere.

  “Something’s puzzling you, Holmes,” Watson said.

  “Yes. This pair kill only for profit, either by way of burglary or because they’ve been hired. I cannot imagine an unsuccessful artist would have much worth stealing.”

  “How do you know he was unsuccessful?” Watson said.

  “Look at the number of paintings, Watson. Some of them have a film of dust on them. No, our artist was not earning much of a living from his work.”

  “I did canvass the area when I arrived, Mr Holmes. There have been no burglaries or break-ins reported on the rest of the street.”

  “Indeed?” I said. “That is excellent work, Inspector, well done. But if burglary was not the motive it can only have been a paid killing. So who would want an impoverished artist and his wife dead?”

  Watson said, “How about this, Holmes?” He indicated a box that had been hidden beneath a stack of canvases.

  “Passports,” I said, looking through them. “So, our friend was a forger, and not a bad one at that. Well, well... Yes, I surmise he made passports for the wrong man and was murdered so he would not speak of it.”

  We left shortly afterwards. The family of the victims had arrived and I dislike these scenes of grief. As we prepared to climb into the cab I shook the inspector’s hand.

  “You have made an excellent start, Inspector. I expect great things from you.”

  “Thank you, Mr Holmes. I shall be sure to mention your assistance to the press and in my report.”

  “You may certainly mention me in your official report, Hill, but there’s no need to mention me to the press. Goodbye for now. I hope you soon find the pair who committed these vicious murders. Lestrade’s looking for them too; perhaps you might combine your efforts.”

  Elder Statesman.

  Ha!

  May 31st, 1897

  Young Inspector Hill stopped by to tell me Hacker and Smiley have vanished. Given the speed with which they fled I suspect they have been aided by someone. There is something singular about this entire affair. Hill feels responsible that he has not been able to make an arrest but I have assured him it is hardly his fault. In any case, that pair will show up again. They are drawn to London as irresistibly as the moth is drawn to the flame.

  Hill has read my monograph on stabbings and asked for more recommendations. I have loaned him several volumes.

  June 22nd, 1897

  The entire country has gone mad. Bunting and fireworks and the streets filled with gullible well-wishers and greedy pickpockets in honour of the queen’s diamond jubilee. Somewhere in this madness is my rescuer Jack, still missing despite all my efforts.

  Watson has gone out to watch the parade and then meet with Stanford.

  “Do come with us, old man,” he said. “The entire world is celebrating. Surely even you must feel the excitement.”

  “Feel it? Certainly. But it does not necessarily follow that I should wish to participate in it. Go out, Watson, enjoy the festivities. I have a very delicate experiment to entertain me.”

  Midnight:

  Watson finally stumbled in, much in his cups. It seems most unfair that he may consume several pints of alcohol with impunity while I am deprived a mere seven-and-a-half percent solution of my own stimulant.

  The street is still noisy. I fear these festivities are likely to continue for some time. Damn.

  August 1st, 1897

  I was followed to Simpsons by an asthmatic man with a florid complexion. He is not known to me, but there is no doubt he was keeping a close eye on my movements. He did not approach nor make any attempt to accost me. Indeed, he slithered away towards the Embankment as soon as he realised I had
spotted him. Another of that old gang? Or is this something new and different?

  Isaiah Collins, Simpsons’ inestimable head waiter, was kind enough to let me use the rear entrance just in case the asthmatic had an unpleasant surprise in store for me.

  There’s no point in alarming Watson, but I have taken the precaution of keeping my Tranter revolver with me whenever I go out.

  August 9th, 1897

  The mountain has come to Mohammed: Mycroft has called upon us.

  Watson offered to leave, but was persuaded to stay. “My brother always behaves better in your presence, Doctor,” Mycroft said.

  “Heaven help the world the rest of the time then,” was my friend’s reply.

  A smirk flickered across Mycroft’s face. Then, sombrely, he explained the reason for his visit.

  “It is a very worrying event, Sherlock,” he concluded. “The assassination of the Spanish prime minister could have serious repercussions.”

  “What do you expect me to do about it?” I demanded. “The Spanish have a police force, do they not? To be sure, they’re probably no better than our own Metropolitan, but even they must be able to investigate an assassination.” It occurred to me that the timing was curious: only a few days ago I was followed. Was someone checking that I was still in London and therefore unlikely to interfere with their perfidious plans? Or do I give myself more credit than I deserve? It is curious that my shadow has not been back though.

  “It’s not this assassination alone that worries me, Sherlock. I believe it is part of a much larger sequence of anarchy that is spreading across Europe.”

  Mycroft sipped his tea and bit down on one of Mrs Hudson’s biscuits, sparkling his topcoat with sugar and looking very much like the schoolboy he once was.

  “There have been too many assassinations of world leaders in the past few years, Sherlock. A few near-misses too. There was the French president in ’94 and the former Bulgarian Prime Minister a year later. Now this.”

  I know my brother of old and I could see what was coming. He did not keep me waiting but came right to the point. “Sherlock, I suspect the Professor’s old gang have regrouped. I believe they have found a new leader.”

  And though I have thought the same thing for several months, I felt my heart sink at his words.

  “Yes,” I said.

  3

  September 14th, 1897

  So many times over the past several weeks I have longed for nothing more than the comfort of my own bed. Now I am home at last in Baker Street, in that very bed, and... I cannot sleep. I will write a little of my journal and in hope it may help my mind to rest.

  Perhaps I am overly-cautious, but I was relieved when Watson agreed to visit his family in Scotland during my absence. While there is no evidence that he has attracted the attentions of the men who have followed me, I would prefer to err on the side of caution. A difficult thing to do whilst managing not to alarm the good doctor.

  “If you are quite certain I cannot be of assistance to you in Europe?” he said as he packed his suitcase.

  “I shall travel incognito,” I said. “The alias of wealthy Robert Bathgate provided by Mycroft will suit me very well. Really, my dear fellow, I think visiting your brother and his family is a much better idea.”

  He wasn’t fooled, of course. He never is, no matter what his readers like to believe. However, he agreed to my plan without demur. His brother’s recent illness coupled with that unfailing sense of duty made up his mind.

  I will admit, however, that there have been times over the past few weeks when I truly missed his company. Having someone who will remain silent or speak intelligently as the circumstances demand is a rare thing. Heaven knows what I shall do if he decides to marry again. It was irritating enough last time, for all his late wife’s indulgence of our adventures. But I am rambling. It is an odious thing to be too tired for coherent thought and yet unable to sleep. It is a vexing state, like some sort of intellectual purgatory, and holds one captive. Ah, let me try to focus.

  Let me see... Well, this morning, duties for the government concluded, I returned home via Scotland. Oh, what great pleasure it was to reunite with my old, and much-missed friend Watson in Edinburgh. He, I think, was equally pleased to see me and we instantly fell into that easy informality which so defines our friendship.

  “You’ve lost too much weight, Holmes,” he said over breakfast. “Using yourself far too liberally, I have no doubt. I hope it was worth it?”

  I glanced around the busy tea room and said softly, “In the end I believe it was. I shall tell you all on the train, my dear fellow. But how are you? Your brother is well, I trust?”

  “As well as anyone can reasonably expect,” he said. “I really wish you had let me come with you. Even hiking around the Continent would have been preferable than these past weeks with my family.”

  “I missed your company too, my dear fellow,” I said. “But it was for the best, I think. And here we are, together again, with a long train journey and plenty of tobacco to share.” I lowered my voice and added, “As it happened, the assassin was already arrested before I even set foot in Spain. Sentenced to death by garrotte. Uncivilized brutes.”

  “You cannot think hanging is much better, Holmes,” he said, nonchalantly buttering his scone.

  “I suppose not... But tell me about you. I see your sister in law continues her Calvinist ways.”

  “Confound it!” he exclaimed. “All right, give me a moment, I can reason it out...” His brow furrowed as he thought but after several minutes of concentrated effort, he at last he gave it up. “Well, then?” he demanded.

  “Your scarf,” I said, amused.

  “My scarf?”

  “Your time in Afghanistan has made you very susceptible to the cold. When the weather is inclement you are in the habit of wearing the heavy woollen scarf your late wife made for you. I have often remarked upon its bright blue and how cheery a sight it is. Yet here we are on a cold Scottish morning and you are clad entirely in black. A silk scarf is hardly much protection against the Highland winds. Conclusion, your sister-in-law insisted you wear all black as befits a good Calvinist. There, how did I do?”

  “Edinburgh is in the lowlands, Holmes. Not the Highlands...

  “I should have thought about the scarf. You’re perfectly right, of course. I packed my dear Mary’s blue one on top of my suitcase so I could retrieve it easily enough, but I forgot... I may have been a little distracted.” He gave me a quick smile and I laughed.

  “Poor Watson,” I said. “I have no doubt my dalliance around Europe must have seemed a grand adventured compared to your own experience. Was it very dreadful?”

  “Very,” he said. “No tobacco, no whisky, no laughter and far too many prayers. By God, I’m glad you’re back!”

  I laughed again. “Even my dearest friends could hardly accuse me of religious zeal,” I said. “We shall be reprobates together. Ah, I am really very pleased to see you again.”

  “I had thought to return to London a week ago,” he said, laughing. “But once I got your telegram announcing your imminent return I decided to wait for you. It’s such a long train journey; much better to share it with a friend.”

  The train journey was indeed long. Eight and a quarter hours from Edinburgh to King’s Cross. Precisely at ten o’clock the train pulled out of Waverly Station heading south.

  Once we were underway I quietly updated Watson on my adventures.

  “My sojourn in Spain was far too brief,” I said. “I greatly enjoyed my time in Seville and later in Barcelona. You haven’t been, have you? You would enjoy it, I think. The orange trees fill the air with such fragrance and the air is dry and hot. Sadly, I had little enough time to enjoy the local colour. I met with the Guardia Civil, as they call their police, and found they had already made an arrest in the assassination of Prime
Minister Antonio Canovas del Castillo. The dead man took a hard line against terror, as you know, Watson. There are those who think his brutality was at least as bad as those he opposed. Indeed, the local authorities believe that brutality is why he was murdered. I was surprised to see how much sympathy even the officials had for the assassin.”

  “Hardly surprising,” Watson said. “I remember last year’s bombing in Barcelona. There were any number of arrests. And weren’t there rumours of torture being used on the suspects?”

  “So it was said. Oh, there is no doubt many were pleased about the death of del Castillo, including the Americans. Mycroft says President McKinley is threatening war with Spain over Cuba.”

  “The Americans?” he exclaimed. “Do you really think they’re involved?”

  “No...” I lit my own cigarette and inhaled deeply before adding: “But the Spanish assassination cannot be viewed on its own. Mycroft believes, and I agree, that there are those working behind the scenes to try to create a new Europe, one with a very different face from the one we know.”

  Watson opened the window a few inches and lit a cigarette. “What about the assassin, Angelo, or whatever his name was? Did he tell you anything of use?”

  “Michele Angiolillo,” I replied. “An Italian by birth with ties to anarchists both in England and on the Continent. I met with him - not alone, alas. Mycroft’s influence is not as robust in Spain as it is here. In any event, the fellow would say very little...”

  “Come, Holmes. I know that look. You learned something.”

  “It was what he did not say. He travelled to Spain from France... via London. Does that not seem peculiar to you?”

  “You think there was someone in here, that is, in England that he met with?”

  “It seems exceedingly likely, does it not? Something else, too: Angiolillo claimed he killed del Castillo as a strike against tyranny, and yet there were documents found in his possession that suggest he had originally planned to kill members of the Spanish royal family but outside influences persuaded him the Prime Minister would make a better target.”