Steampunk Holmes: Legacy of the Nautilus (3 page)

“Certainly there was some blood on his person, though?” I asked, with some surprise, recalling the many head wounds I had treated on the battlefields of Afghanistan.

“Well yes, there was, His head and jacket collar were drenched in blood.”

“Odd,” said I, “that there is so little blood on the ground, in such a case.”

“Did the trains reveal no sign of violence?” asked Holmes, peering up at us from his crouched position.

“None whatever that we could find,” replied Lestrade. “We searched every carriage that went through this station last night.”

Holmes' eyes narrowed to a slit, and I saw on his keen, alert face that tightening of the lips, that quiver of the nostrils which I knew so well, the signals that he was intent on a chase. He drew himself up and gazed about us.

High blank walls flanked the tracks on either side of the area where we stood; wires crossed high overhead; a junction of switches a few yards from the chalked area suddenly caught Holmes' attention, and upon these he fixed himself with eagerness.

“I suppose there are no great number of switches such as these on this particular system of lines?”

“No, sir,” replied the elderly gentleman. Holmes eyes glinted, and his voice betrayed suppressed excitement.

“And an outbound curve, too. By Jove! If it were only so! And yet, why not?”

“Have you a clue, Mr Holmes?” queried Lestrade with some surprise.

“An idea—nothing more. It may lead to nothing. But the case grows every moment in interest. Come Watson, let us be gone; I have seen all I wanted to see here. Good-bye, Lestrade; we need not trouble you further for the present, I believe. Our investigations must now carry us to Woolwich.”

Holmes sent a telegram to Mycroft Holmes from the station before boarding the train to Woolwich. It ran,

“
See possible light in darkness. Please immediately send by messenger to Baker Street complete list of all known foreign spies and international agents residing in London, with full address.”

Holmes and I took our seats opposite one other in the Woolwich train. His manner betrayed the fact that the wheels of his brain were spinning furiously, tracing a complex chain from some elusive clue that had entirely escaped me, and most likely Lestrade as well. He lounged, apathetic and contemplative, in his seat; the next moment he started violently, just as we emerged from a tunnel, and craning his head, gazed earnestly out the window at the sky; a few moments later he resigned himself to his seat with restless fingers and tapping feet, until at last he sank back into a meditative reverie with half-closed lids.

I knew him too well to expect an answer to any direct question when he was in such a mood, but at last my curiosity overcame me.

“What is it, Holmes?” I asked. My friend started.

“It is only an idea, Watson. The more I reflect upon it, the stranger it seems even to me, and yet it would fit the facts so beautifully if it were true. Why was the body found near a junction of switches, just as the line curves towards Aldgate? It must have been thrown from a train, and yet why was his ticket not found?”

“Why not indeed?” I asked, puzzled. “Has that so great a bearing upon the case?”

“Certainly it does, my dear Watson. I do not have all the facts yet to solve the greater mystery of the theft, but before we investigate the question of how the cards were taken and why they were found on Cadbury's person—if indeed he did not take them himself—we must ascertain how his body came to land in such a strange location. When we have discovered that, the rest of the pieces must fall into place.”

“Perhaps,” I conjectured, “he stole the cards, and brought them to whoever he intended to sell them to. The cards were sold, and as Cadbury returned to the station with his loot, he was followed by that same agent, who boarded his carriage, killed him, took back the money he had paid for the cards, removed the ticket to conceal the station from which they came, and replaced the seven cards that he judged least crucial to his purpose in the dead man's pocket. He then threw the body out of the train just as the train curved toward Aldgate station, making it appear as an accident, or suicide.”

“Excellent, Watson! It is a fine theory you put forth, and I must congratulate you. It is true that you omitted most of the noteworthy details of the crime, but it was a splendid attempt at reconstruction, nevertheless.”

I frowned, a trifle offended at his withering criticism. “What flaws can you detect in the theory, then?”

“Oh, several, at first glance. Why, for example, was there no blood found anywhere, either on the lines or in the trains?”

“Ah, that certainly is singular,” I conceded. “The report of internal bleeding seems absurd when coupled with the evidence that youth's collars and jacket were soaked in blood. Surely his clothes alone cannot have prevented all the blood from dripping onto the ground.”

“Precisely, my good Watson; even my comparatively limited medical knowledge tells me that when a human head receives so massive a blow as Cadbury is reported to have received—his head was fairly smashed open by all accounts—some shedding of blood at least is to be expected in the immediate vicinity. No, no, he bled profusely when he died, I am sure, only there was no blood found inside a carriage, because he was never inside the train at all.”

“What?” I cried. “Not inside a train? Where, then?”

“My idea is that the body was lying on the roof of the train.”

“What?” I cried again, thoroughly surprised. “How, pray, did it get up there?”

“That is what we must find out. But consider, Watson, the angle and the distance between the body's position and the curve of the rails just as it hits upon the switches. A train would shudder as it swings over the switches, but it would not dramatically affect anything inside the train. An object upon the roof, however, would undoubtedly be thrown far off by the combined jostling of the switches and the impetus of the curve.”

“That would explain the lack of blood anywhere in the carriages or on the rails,” said I. “But Holmes, your theory is...”

“Still only a theory, I know,” he said, interrupting me mid-sentence. “It is merely an idea, and I will not swear to it until I have more facts. But as I said, the more I reflect upon the absurdity of the whole thing, the more I am convinced that it must have occurred in that way, and in no other.”

“But why was he placed on the roof of a train, of all places, and how was it managed?”

“I have an idea that my sister can help us there. Her answer to my wire may prove to be most enlightening. Not another word about it now, Watson, until we have more data.”

My mind raced to explore Holmes' theory, though I confess I failed to see how it could possibly have any bearing on the case; nor could I imagine how a comprehensive list of foreign spies and agents could possibly assist Holmes in any way, unless he already suspected some person or persons, and merely sought confirmation. Though I explored the matter from every conceivable angle, I had come no nearer to guessing Holmes' chain of reasoning by the time we reached Woolwich.

From the station, we proceeded by cab to the house of the late Sir James Valentine. It was a fine villa, with green lawns stretching down to the Thames. The fog had lifted somewhat, and a watery sunshine endeavored to dispel the wisps that still clung to the hedges and hollows. I basked in the evidence of soon-to-come springtime as we walked up the garden path to the house.

The mood relapsed again into sober gloom, however, as a butler in mourning velvet answered our knock, and led the way with stricken step to a dim-lit drawing room, where we were asked to wait. Presently the butler returned and announced Miss Valentine. The lady herself entered, her reddened rims and untidy blonde locks attesting to her sudden double bereavement. Holmes bowed low and presented his card with a flourish.

“My sincerest sympathies, madam,” said he. “I deeply regret the necessity to disturb you at this time; however I must prevail upon you to answer a few questions, which may go far in assisting us to clear up the tragic circumstances surrounding your fiancé's death, and that of your worthy brother.”

“I shall try, Mr Holmes,” said the lady, seating herself upon a settee and motioning for us to do likewise. “Though everything has happened so suddenly; I confess I can scarcely take it all in.”

“Perhaps it will be easier if you limit yourself to answering my questions.”

“Infinitely so,” replied the woman, with a grateful sigh. “Ask me anything you like; I shall try to answer to the best of my ability.”

“When did you last see Mr. Cadbury?”

“Last night. We were walking to the theatre—the fog was so thick that a cab was useless—when suddenly he dropped my arm, told me forcefully to go back home, and darted away into the fog. I was startled, but when he did not return after a few minutes, I came back home.”

“Extraordinary!” murmured Holmes. “Can you explain his conduct?”

“No, not for the world! We had been conversing most amiably, and nothing at all seemed amiss, until that moment.”

“That is most singular,” Holmes remarked. “Tell me, Miss Valentine, can you say for certain whether he had any worries—anything on his mind? Was he in want of money, for example?”

“No, his wants were simple, and his salary most adequate. He had saved several hundred, and we were to be married next year. He had had no upsets of late, at least none that he revealed to me.”

“Do you know anything about the technical cards found in his pockets?”

“Technical cards? Ah yes, my brother mentioned Engine cards of some sort in his farewell letter to me,” she said. “He said that Arthur had stolen cards containing a state secret of great value. I cannot help you in any way there, Mr. Holmes; I really know very little about my brother's work, and less of my fiancé's. Neither of them ever discussed their affairs with me.”

“I see,” said Holmes. “And what of your brother, Sir James? Can you give us any clues to help us understand the circumstances surrounding his personal tragedy?”

Miss Valentine's pretty face, which had hitherto been composed, though sad, began to work convulsively. She brought her handkerchief to her face and sobbed piteously for a few moments, struggling to regain her composure.

“It... it was this dreadful scandal,” she said, between weeping sobs. “He... he couldn't take it, I suppose. His honor was so dear to him, and his pride in his department so profound, that it broke his heart to hear that one of his own trusted men could do such a thing. His letter to me said as much. My own dear, dear brother. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I am desolate, desolate.” She trailed off again into a burst of quiet weeping behind her handkerchief. My sympathy flowed towards this beautiful girl, so dreadfully bereaved, so fragile and helpless against the flood of ill-luck which had suddenly drenched her life. She recovered presently, and begged our forgiveness for her outburst.

“Not at all, dear Miss Valentine,” I hastened to reassure her. “On the contrary, it is most wretched that we should have to intrude upon your sorrow in this fashion. Mr. Holmes and I shall do everything in our power to discover the truth of the matter, in the hopes that we may speedily bring closure to this tragedy.” I threw a glance in Holmes' direction, and saw that his brow was deeply furrowed.

“Yes indeed, Miss Valentine,” said he. “Pray, would it be possible to see this note which your brother left you? A mere formality, I assure you, but one which may prove revealing.”

Miss Valentine started violently, and stammered, “Why... no. No, I'm sorry. You see, I regret very much that, in my first shock, I … I threw it into the fire. I thought it was a cruel joke, you see, and you can imagine my chagrin at having done so when a few moments later I learned that the note had not been false.”

Holmes reached for his hat. “If there is anything we can do for you, Miss Valentine, or if any fresh knowledge or memory relating to the case arises, do not hesitate contact us.”

“I thank you from my heart, Mr. Holmes,” replied the girl, smiling through a mask of tear stains. “You, too, Doctor. And oh, I must beg you not to forget that dear Arthur—Mr. Cadbury—was a single-minded, chivalrous, patriotic man. He would have cut his right hand off before selling a State secret confided to his keeping. The facts all tell against him, I know, but... oh, his honor was more important to him than anything else in the world. I cannot explain his actions, but I, who knew him better than most, can assure you that there must be some mistake in all this...”

Her voice trailed off, her liquid eyes and trembling lips more eloquently appealing than her stumbling words. Holmes' face reflected deep gravity as he bowed, and we wished her good morning.

A few words with the constable on duty on our way out divulged the bare facts of the master's death. Around six o'clock that morning an urgent message had been taken to Sir James with his tea; he rang not five minutes later for his valet, to whom he entrusted a sealed letter for his sister Miss Valentine, with instructions to have it delivered immediately. Nearly an hour later, at ten minutes past seven, another messenger arrived with a summons for Sir James to appear at the offices of the Ministry; the valet took the message upstairs, and found the door locked. As no answer came to his repeated knocks, the valet fetched the footman and the gardener, and the three forced the door and entered the chamber, where they found Sir James slumped over his desk, cold dead. The doctor and police were summoned, and the cause of death was determined to have been suicide by poisoning. The letter to Miss Valentine apparently explained his reasons for taking his own life. So much the constable was able to tell us.