The Sherlockian (26 page)

They had ridden from Westminster all the way to Clerkenwell, as the whole while their driver kept Emily’s hansom in view. They arrived at the four-story on Aylesbury Street just as Emily was turning her key in the front door. Arthur had the cabbie stop a few houses before Emily’s and then instructed him to pull up outside it after she had entered. They’d waited a few moments, until a light turned on inside the thirdfloor flat. Arthur and Bram couldn’t see far enough into the windows to tell what Emily was doing, but they now knew where she lived.

After they had let the cabbie go, there’d been considerable disagreement over what to do next. Arthur had wanted to bang on the front door, demand to be let up, and then confront this girl as to her role in the affair. Bram noted that this plan carried with it a considerable amount of danger. It was likely that Emily was a clandestine associate of at least two murdered suffragists. She had been involved in the murders of Sally Needling and her friend, and perhaps the letter bombing of Arthur’s study. They still didn’t know what the tattoos meant. And most importantly, they had no information about the murderous husband they were after. If Emily knew him, or if she even conspired with him, he might come calling on her at any moment. Perhaps it would be helpful to have a little more information before they confronted her.

Arthur had not been entirely convinced by Bram’s arguments, though he had been cautioned by them. “Very well,” he allowed. “Let us first set up watch over Emily and her quarters. We’re going to have to get out of these ridiculous clothes sooner or later, so let’s take turns running home for trousers and shirts while the other keeps a view on those windows. If Emily leaves, we shall again give chase. If she stays, we shall do the same. Agreed?”

And so they had proceeded, with Arthur taking the first trip home for a fresh change of clothes. There had been no more trains at that hour, so he had engaged another hansom in the most expensive cab ride of his life. At home he was greeted by the stillness of a sleeping household. At the sound of his key in his lock, at the clap of his shoe on the floor of the front hallway, he had felt suddenly alien. Like a thief in his own home. Not one of the souls peacefully sleeping underneath this roof knew a thing about the quest which had so consumed him over these past weeks. His obsessive machinations were hidden from these drowsy snorers on the second floor. Not his wife, Touie, nor his love Jean, was so alive in his mind as were the dead and their killer.

No one had stirred as he had ascended the stairs to his chambers. Fortunately, he and Touie still kept separate sleeping arrangements, on account of her illness, so he had no need to disturb her slumber as he fumbled about with his corset.

He had returned to Clerkenwell three hours later, riding in the same hansom in which he’d left. It was then Bram’s turn to make use of the cab, the driver of which was having the most prosperous of evenings. Arthur and Bram had alternated thus for much of the following day. They took turns sleeping in a nearby hotel, though neither man managed much in the way of decent rest.

And now, at a quarter to six in the evening on the day after the suffragist lecture, Arthur manned his post alone, with only a silver case of Morris cigarettes to keep him company. The night had been long, yes, but the day had been even longer. The midnight chill had kept him awake until dawn, but Arthur was growing disoriented by the day of half-sleeping and half-waking attention to a single window. Pedestrians came and went, yet Arthur remained, forcing himself alert despite the stultifying inactivity. He had heard soldiers in the Transvaal describe sentry duty as being one in which the hour of the day became lost entirely. A second might feel like an hour, and an hour like a second, until one had no idea whether it was noon or night. Arthur found himself having just the opposite experience. He knew precisely what hour it was, and he counted down the minutes to Bram’s next arrival on his pocket watch.

At six o’clock exactly, Arthur saw Bram turn the corner onto Aylesbury Street. Bram looked considerably more rested than Arthur, though he seemed no happier about their mission. The men traded pleasantries, though neither seemed in the mood to be particularly pleasant about it.

When the light in Emily’s window clicked off, it stole Arthur and Bram’s attention toward the darkened flat. They each instinctively stepped away from the streetlight, well outside the range of the gas lamp twelve feet above their heads. After a long few moments, Emily appeared in the building’s front door. She carried a heavy purse, into which she deposited her keys after locking the door behind her. At the bottom of the four steps between her front door and the street, she almost smacked directly into an old woman. Emily appeared to blurt out a quick apology and continue on her way, while the old woman regained her balance along the handrail and ascended toward the door of Emily’s building.

Arthur turned to Bram. “Do you think we have the same plan in mind?” he asked.

“I’m sure we do not,” replied Bram cautiously.

“Then I’ll explain in a moment,” said Arthur. “For now, come!” Arthur spun around and headed straight for the door to Emily’s building. She was walking east and was already approaching the corner. In a few seconds, she would be out of view.

But Arthur paid her no mind. Rather, he hopped up the four steps to Emily’s residence while the old woman fumbled with her keys.

“Pardon me,” said Arthur to the old woman. “Might I give you a hand with that?”

The woman looked confused as she glanced up from her ring of keys and into Arthur’s bright face. He’d shaved at home, but left his upper lip untouched. Not yet twenty-four hours old, Arthur’s nascent mustache was ill shaped and splotchy. He looked like a teenager overeager to prove his manhood.

“I . . .” stammered the old woman. “Well . . . I . . . certainly . . .”

Arthur reached out and snatched the keys from her hand. He found the right one and opened the door to her building. He handed the keys back to her while he held the door open and gestured for her to pass inside.

“After you, madam,” he said.

She seemed unsure of how to handle this situation, but years of social training kicked in.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, and walked into her building. She moved through the small vestibule, and, the correct key already in hand, she unlocked the door to her flat and went inside. Arthur remained smiling at the building’s entryway, continuing to hold open the door as if he were a shoddy butler. As soon as she’d vanished into her flat, Arthur let his smile drop and called outside to Bram.

“What are you waiting for? Let’s go!” he cried.

Bram followed Arthur up the building’s winding central staircase and onto the third-floor landing. They came to a sturdy door with the letter “C” marked in brass upon its face. Arthur tried the knob, on the off chance that it happened to be unlocked. It was not.

“Well then,” said Bram. “Fine work. What now?”

By way of response, Arthur picked up his right leg, leaned back, and kicked at the door with all his might. There was a loud crunching sound, and both men could see the doorframe shake. And yet the door itself did not budge. Arthur kicked again, just beside the knob, and again the hallway was filled with the slap and crunch of boot against wood. But again the door did not give.

They could hear the old woman from downstairs coming out into the hall, drawn from her flat by the noises from upstairs.

“What’s going on there?” she shouted up the staircase. Bram and Arthur exchanged a look. What should they say?

“Almost done!” shouted Arthur in response. “We’ll be through in a minute!” This did not remotely address the woman’s question, but it seemed to provide them with a little bit of time. The old woman seemed not to know what next to say.

Arthur shrugged and then wound himself up for another kick. This one was no more effective than the others.

“You’re quite sure there’s no problem?” the woman called.

“No, ma’am!” yelled Arthur. As he prepared himself for another kick—his knees were growing sore—Bram stuck out his hand.

“Wait,” whispered Bram. “If you really intend to break in to Emily’s lodgings by force, then we might as well just see it done.” Bram reached a hand into his coat pocket and removed a pearl-handled revolver. He drew back the pin, pointed it at the door, and pulled the trigger.

The whole building seemed to echo from the gunshot. As Arthur’s hearing returned, he began to make out reverberations from every corner of the four-story. But it wasn’t until the ringing in his ears began to subside that he became fully aware of what had just occurred.

“Sorry about that, ma’am!” Bram yelled down the staircase. “That’ll be all for now!”

Arthur looked at the door. The knob hung loose from the door’s face, and the lock inside appeared permanently disfigured. Bram easily pushed the door open with one gentle stroke of his hand.

The old woman did not respond, but seemed instead to return to her flat. Or so Arthur could deduce from the sounds he heard burbling up the staircase.

“That was a good bit louder, and rather more sudden, than I might have expected,” Arthur said. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard a shot go off indoors before. Frightfully loud.”

“If your plan is to search through Emily’s lodgings,” said Bram, “then I suggest we do it quickly. We’ll have inquiries about the noise soon enough.” He entered the flat, and Arthur followed.

Inside, they found a mess that had little to do with their break-in. A tea set lay out beside a couch, cups and saucers scattered over every flat surface. Murky liquid, which might once have been called tea, pooled inside the cups. It gave off a gentle whiff of spoiled milk.

Off to one side of the room was an open doorway leading to a cramped bedroom. Arthur could see from the main sitting room that the bed was unmade and that articles of ladies’ clothing were strewn about the floor alongside the bedsheets. Though the windows had seemed large from across the street, as they were Arthur’s only portals into Emily’s world, now that he was inside, they seemed rather small. They mustn’t let in much light, even in the daytime. Outside, it was dark, and as Arthur approached the window, he looked down at the lonely streetlamp under which he’d stood. He could barely make it out, given all the fog.

Across from the bedroom door sat a worktable, on which all manner of objects seemed to coexist. There were chemical beakers and test tubes, sacks of colored powders and wide Corning vials, balls of twine and a stack of cheap brown wrapping paper. The work done upon this table was scientific, Arthur could tell at least that much. In the center of the table, a white box lay opened. Arthur peered inside and found himself face-to-face with a tube of dynamite.

It looked identical to the tube he’d found wrapped in a very similar package, in his letter box. Fortunately, in this case the dynamite did not appear to be attached to anything. There was no triggering mechanism in sight. Arthur reached down and turned the package over. On the bottom a label had already been fixed. “Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle,” it read. “Undershaw. Hindhead.”

Bram joined Arthur at the desk. He merely nodded as he observed the letter bomb, and the name printed on its address label.

“My God,” said Arthur. “It was this Emily girl. She was the one who tried to kill me.” But before Bram could respond, they heard footsteps at the door to the flat. Both men turned.

Emily stood in the doorway in her colorful coat. Under the crook of one arm, she held a stack of letters. In the other arm, she held a revolver, which she aimed straight at Arthur.

Arthur’s mind turned, strangely, not to his family, or his loves, but to Bram. Underpinning Arthur’s fear was the thought that he should never have involved a friend so good as Bram in all this.
Bram deserved more,
Arthur realized as he stared into the steel face of Emily’s pistol and watched her pull back the pin.

C
HAPTER 26

Ron Rosenberg Theorizes

“How do you know that? ”

“I followed you,” [said Holmes.]

“I saw no one.”

“That is what you may expect to see when I follow you.”

—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,

“The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot”

January 10, 2010, cont.

With great effort Ron Rosenberg heaved himself onto his feet. He still clutched his knee, his hands rubbing at the spot where Sarah had kicked it. While Ron took a deep breath, Sarah stepped back, giving him space. She continued to hold the knife in her hand, however, its blade outstretched and at the ready.

“Why are you following us?” said Harold.

“And more importantly,” said Sarah, “what the hell are you wearing?”

As if suddenly remembering his disguise, Ron reached up to his face and pulled off the costume nose. He removed a pair of fake gray eyebrows and a very convincing gray wig. Bits of leathery fake skin had been dislodged from his cheeks and forehead. They hung off him, making it look as if his face were melting.

“Maybe I should be the one asking questions of the two of you!” he said. “What have you done with the diary?”

“Jesus, Ron, we don’t have the diary. Stop.” Harold turned to Sarah, addressing her. “The costume, the old man bit . . . It’s a Sherlock Holmes thing. When he was trailing suspects, Holmes would go out in disguise a lot. He often dressed as an old man, or even an old woman. It’s in a bunch of stories.” He turned back to Ron. “Which doesn’t explain what you’re doing
here.
”

“I had hoped not to reveal my hand this early, Harold, but you leave me no choice. I think you killed Alex Cale and stole the diary. I think you’re in league with Sebastian Conan Doyle and that the two of you planned it together.”

Sarah smiled.

Harold rubbed his temples with his hands, more irritated than angry. “Why would I kill Cale?”

“Because you wanted to be number one, Harold. Don’t pretend you’re not ambitious. You’ve been an Irregular for, what, a week now? You’ve already published an article in the
Baker Street Journal.
You’ve befriended all of the group’s luminaries, including me. You made sure to meet Alex Cale the night before his death. Jeffrey Engels sponsored your investiture, you must know that. But did you think he was going to help you cover up the murder, too? Don’t be stupid, Harold.”