Who Done Houdini (26 page)

 

Chapter 41

V
iolet threw me questioning looks all the way back to the hotel, but a very awkward silence prevailed. Officer Ed escorted us into the hotel and to the elevators. “Officer O'Neal will be calling you in the morning,” he said with a nod. Everyone in the hotel lobby watched him leave.

All the while, the engine in Violet's imagination furiously took on coal. It finally exploded when the elevator arrived and we stepped inside. “Now! Will someone please tell me what has happened?”

“Mr. Becker is dead,” Holmes said.

“I wish I could say ‘poor man.' How did he die?”

“Mr. Holmes killed him in cold blood,” I said. “Don't look so surprised, dear, he said he has good reason. I'm anxious to hear what that might be myself.”

Holmes remained silent. Violet glared at him until the elevator stopped at our floor. With a strangely dispassionate face, Holmes strode to our door and knocked two times and then four.

Rose appeared. Noticing our expressions, she asked, “What's wrong?” as she stood aside to let us in.

“We'll let Mr. Holmes explain,” I said.

“I'll be more than happy to do just that,” he said, fetching his pipe from his pocket.

With Violet and me steaming, and Rose frowning, he calmly took out his pouch of Latakia, filled the bowl and struck a match. “Where were we? Oh, yes. You wanted to know why it was necessary for me to end of the life of Mr. Albert Becker.”

After taking a big puff, he continued. “Please sit down everyone. I have much to tell you.”

Three frowning faces stared at him and found chairs. All wanted him to get to the crux of the matter quickly. I knew that wasn't his style.

“Very good. To continue, as I'm sure you're aware, murder is not my usual
modus operandi
. I view my investigations as scientific inquiries only, leaving rightful retribution to the judicial system. In fact, other than the well-deserved demise of Professor Moriarty, I've resorted to intentional homicide on only one other occasion before tonight. It was one of my unrecorded cases, and the deeds of the fiend I dispatched could never have been properly weighed in the scales of justice of Old Bailey. He undoubtedly never even would have been arrested. In some ways, there are many similarities between the three instances.”

I knew of Moriarty's death at Reichenbach Falls, and remembered cases where Holmes or Dr. Watson had to act in defense of their own lives, but never even suspected another instance of Holmes committing an intentional murder. My journalistic ears could hardly wait.

“All three cases involved individuals who would eventually have found a way to kill me, had I not killed them first. All three executions involved issues far greater than the crimes they committed, and for that reason, all three were absolutely necessary.”

I fidgeted as I waited for him to take another puff. Holmes's carefully detailed scientific explanations made me glad the blessed Dr. John Watson was the raconteur of the famed adventures.

“None of you have ever heard of Sir Alistair Gordon of Carsworth Estates in Brighton, and it's a very good thing you haven't. Sir Alistair was a very handsome young widower who posted bills in that city advertising governess positions for his four-year-old daughter. There was nothing extraordinary about needing a governess, but his method of finding candidates certainly was. Nonetheless, he never was at a loss for applicants. And, with his fair looks, I'm sure all were more than happy to accept employment from him when offered.”

“I don't like this already,” Violet steamed. “The poor girls.”

“You're way too far ahead of me, my dear. But, unfortunately, you are quite correct. Had Sir Alistair used the normal channels to find his employees, his continual requirements for replacements would eventually have been noticed. Most of the unfortunates were working class females, and sworn to secrecy at their application for work. The advertisements he posted merely stated the position, a starting salary—a very generous one at that—and a place to meet to interview for employment. Each note invariably disappeared before the end of the day it was posted. Sir Alistair merely hired the first one who appeared at the interview point, and sent the others away. In a matter of weeks someone usually would file a missing person's report, and after a brief investigation producing no clues, the matter was dropped.”

Violet snorted. “You're making me angrier with every word. What was he doing to these poor creatures?”

“Yes,” Rose added in an equally testy voice. “I want to know, too.”

“Not what you might suspect, my dearests. Something far worse. But please try to control your feminine sensibilities long enough to let me relate my account at my own speed. As appropriate as your anger is, it makes the telling all the more difficult.”

Violet flung herself back against her chair with a loud sniff. Rose still sat forward, cradling her head on hands with elbows burrowing into her knees. “Hmph!”

“Thank you. As you can easily see, Sir Alistair was so guarded in his actions that it's very unlikely I would ever have become involved with the beast at all had it not been for the actions of a young constable in Brighton who, for personal reasons, became more curious in the missing persons cases than his fellow officers had been. It seems his betrothed had filed one of the reports and was unhappy about the lack of progress. She urged her fiancee to investigate more thoroughly. When he did, he was dumbfounded to realize there had been seven similar reports involving other young women over the course of less than a year and one half.”

It was my turn to interrupt. “Isn't that a rather large number of similar missing persons, even in a city the size of Brighton?”

“Yes and no, Wiggins. Even today it isn't uncommon for a woman to run away and marry, even though they usually eventually contact their families after a while. And, as you may have guessed, more than one of the young women was hopeful their prospective employer wouldn't delve too deeply into their background. Most of all, everyone knew Brighton wasn't East London. Now, may I continue?”

“Of course,” I said with as much irony as I could muster. “Please forgive the interruption.”

“Forgiven. Let me see. It was in late summer of '96, and Watson and I had experienced an unexpected drought of work. I hadn't been to Brighton for quite a while and welcomed the opportunity to revisit the bustle of the rides at the Pier and the joys of the Pavilion, so we caught a train on a Friday morning.

“All the way I wondered what would entice a young woman to possible danger in a city with so many attractions. From the young constable I had learned that all the missing women were residents of the city. There might be others unknown, visiting from other parts of the country, but the fact that all known were from Brighton seemed to narrow down the scope, if just by a whit. It also occurred to me, that most of the women absent seemed to be honestly employed in laundries or as seamstresses and shop keepers or involved in similar labors. All were single, and likely to want to improve their station, either by marriage or better employment.”

“I'm sorry, but I do wish you would come to the point,” Violet said with a forced yawn. “Any woman would have come to same conclusion years before you did.”

“Perhaps it would be better if I stop at this point entirely. I seem to be doing a terrible botch job of enlightening you.”

“Stop it, both of you,” I said. “I hate to put it this way, Violet, but go suck on a lemon. Please continue, Mr. Holmes.”

“Perhaps I can shorten the narrative a bit,” Holmes said with amazing good grace. “I only include so much detail to illustrate our extreme good fortune in detecting the plot at all, and to show how many other harmless creatures could have perished but for what almost appeared to be divine intervention. How it relates to Mr. Becker will soon be clear enough, I promise you.”

“Then I apologize,” Violet said in a much friendlier voice.

“Apology gladly accepted, dear lady. As luck would have it, Watson remarked about the number of handbills he noticed as we walked from the railway stations. Offers of furniture for sale, clothing, men seeking work as bicycle messengers, employers looking for a day's strong back to move building supplies seemed to be posted everywhere we looked. One that particularly caught my eye advertised for a young woman to assist in tending three children at the Pier on the coming Saturday morning, offering an astounding two shillings in compensation for a few hours' work. Something about it captured my attention. That, and the almost unbelievably favorable bargain prices advertised on nearly all of the postings.

“Inspired, I asked a young toff on the street if there was any particular area where young working women would gather to lunch. As luck would have it, he said there was indeed such a place, a square less than half a mile from the Pavilion. We found it easily enough and discovered several young lasses nibbling on sandwiches and luncheoning together in laughter and gay conversation. Better still, it was impossible to miss that all the trees and walls of the surrounding buildings had disappeared under a motley assortment of paper.

“A quick scan netted nothing promising. As was my wont, I quickly hired a lad off the street to visit the square first thing each morning, and alert me if he ever found anything that at all seemed promising. Better still, I offered him a crown if he would bring me the posting, and a guinea if I was especially pleased with the find.

“A fortnight later he called me, and I was sure he had earned his guinea. Watson and I were on the next Southern Railway train from Charing Cross. Our young agent decided to endure the pains consequent to dodging school for the chance of gaining such a fortune and promised, and met us at the station.”

“Go on,” Violet cooed. “This is starting to get exciting.”

“It is indeed. The poster offered the outrageously high wage of five pounds per month as well as room and board. I knew we had found what we were looking for. A cab took us to the address on London Road where the interview would take place. The room was already dark, and the proprietor said the gentleman who had rented it had concluded his business and left two hours before our arrival. A steady stream of young women had been arriving all day. He said the gentleman had paid cash for rent a week beforehand, leaving a postal box in southwest Brighton as his business address.

“We weren't too surprised to discover there was no such box, and no Cecil Enright living in the city. Needless to say, we were impressed at the lengths to which our suspect had gone to cover his tracks.”

“Don't keep us hanging,” Rose said, unmistakable excitement in her voice. “How did you trace him?”

I had to wink at Holmes. He had become a fine performer at his particular brand of magic.

With a faint smile he continued. “How did we locate him? By the handbill. It was professionally printed on a peculiar shade of pink paper. I was certain it was especially designed to attract a young female's attention. As luck would have it—or perhaps again it was the hand of Deity—we passed an advertisement printed on just that shade of paper on our way back to the railway station. The advertiser had left his phone exchange.”

“Was he the monster?” Violet squealed.

“No. Merely a merchant offering to provide flowers for upcoming nuptials. But our florist gave me the address of the printer who had done the work. The printer recognized our handbill as a printing job he had performed for Dr. Alistair Gordon. Using pink paper was the printer's idea, bless the deity. His client, Dr. Gordon, a noted physician in South Sussex, and a supplier of cadavers to the medical schools in Cambridge and London, would never have permitted anything so incriminating.”

Violet cried out. “Cadavers? Oh, God, no! The poor girls.”

“As strange as this may sound, I would have been much happier if Dr. Gordon had turned out to be just another William Burke. Selling cadavers was a far less odious crime than what we uncovered. Sufficient to say, there are far greater horrors, and I shall spare you the details.”

Violet and Rose began to cry and grasped hands for consolation.

“Take cheer, my dears. There is much better in the offing. In brief, Watson and I discovered Dr. Gordon had recently purchased an antique clock at Christies. I had a friend at the company who hired us on to make the delivery. The doctor was very affable, and even introduced us to his daughter, Clara, and his newly hired governess, a pretty young red-haired nineteen-year-old named Phoebe.”

“Did she die, too?” Violet asked, nearly sobbing.

“No. I'll spare you that heartache. It was a near miss, but she survived. It was for the sake of the two innocents that I had to resort to such extreme measures in dealing with the doctor. We made our delivery, and before we left the manor, I made sure I had unlatched a window in the music room where he wanted it placed.”

“Good!” my dear wife thundered.

“It was indeed. I learned that the estimable doctor had regular billiards tournaments on Tuesday nights, leaving the estate in the hands of the governess and Clara. The following Tuesday, Watson and I hid on the grounds and watched him leave. After he did, we easily found our unlocked window.”

Though both women had tears in their eyes, Violet grabbed one of my hands and squeezed, and Rose the other. Even I was joining in the rising excitement, though I couldn't imagine what his narrative had to do with Albert Becker. I could tell Holmes was enjoying at center stage.

“Watson, carrying his bag of tools, led the way. The house was dark and silent, though a central chandelier provided more than enough illumination to light our path and we had to use our torch for only a short time. We had earlier decided to limit our search to the first floor of the manor. It was, it turned out, a wise decision. A heavy door at the extreme eastern end of the building was securely locked. I also could hear muffled angry barking from within.”