Chapter 1
Sunday 17 February, 1901
My sleep was shattered at some ghastly hour by the sound of a brief but piercing scream. Then I heard harsh, relentless sobbing. It took a few minutes for my brain to process that the sound came from within 221B.
Since I had staggered into my bed not two hours earlier, my first sleep in more than two days, (thank you, Mycroft) I swore at whoever had awakened me, no doubt because of some domestic issue. I cried out, “For the love of God, Watson, see what’s the matter.” I pulled the bedcovers over my head and tried to go back to sleep, but to no avail. The caterwauling continued.
Bleary-eyed and in no good humour, I eventually managed to sit up on the side of the bed and struggled into my dressing gown. Belatedly, I remembered that Watson was again working in the clinic. Beatrice had also abandoned me, being in much demand by the royal family since the death of the queen. Thus left to my own devices, I stumbled down the stairs to investigate the fuss and, more to the point, to see if I could make it stop.
I found a chaotic scene. The hallway groaned with all the maids, two policemen, and Mrs Hudson. Most of them were talking at once, and our housekeeper continued to wail.
“For heaven’s sake,” I cried, “what is the matter?”
“Mr Holmes?” one of the policemen said, “I am Sergeant Thorne from Division D. I’m afraid I just had to give some bad news to this lady. A woman believed to be her niece, a Miss Reid, was found dead this morning.”
“Oh.”
I am not often so lacking in manners, eloquence, or wit, but my fatigue severely impeded my usual acuity.
“What happened?” I managed.
The sergeant gave the distraught housekeeper a concerned look and led me towards the door. In a soft voice he said, “Stabbed and battered, I’m afraid, Mr Holmes. Nasty business.”
“She has been identified?”
“Not officially. The lady in question had a letter in her handbag addressed to a Miss Megan Reid at this address. Mrs Hudson says the young lady had gone to church this morning around seven o’clock.”
“What time is it now?” I asked.
“Seven-thirty.” The policeman looked unhappily in Mrs Hudson’s direction, and he lowered his voice. “From the lady’s description, I’m afraid it seems likely that our victim is Miss Reid. Were you acquainted with her, Mr Holmes?”
“Only slightly. She recently returned from South Africa and remained convalescent for several weeks. Since her health improved somewhat, she began to help her aunt around the house. I am afraid I did not have much in the way of conversation with her.”
“Do you think you might be able to come to the site? When we saw the address on the envelope, we did hope you might be able to help us.”
The policeman gave me a dubious look. No doubt my appearance did not quite match that of the elegant and alert detective of my flatmate’s fiction.
“Yes,” I said, “Of course I would like to examine the scene. I am much obliged to you for preserving it for me.”
At this, the policeman seemed less bemused. “Would you also be able to identify the body?” he continued. “The lady — ah, Mrs Hudson — is so distressed, and the body is in a bad way. Unless she has other family who might be able to do the job?”
“I believe her parents and other close relatives live in Scotland.” I suppressed a moan and tried to convince my legs to move. “Very well, I need to get dressed. Please come upstairs. It’s difficult to think in all this noise.”
I turned back to the staircase but before I could put a foot on the first step, Mrs Hudson clutched my arm and cried, “Oh, Mr Holmes, you will find out who did this to poor Meg, won’t you? Please, Mr Holmes.”
What could I do? Without Watson to fill his role as comforter, I found the poor woman in my arms, sobbing against my chest, while I patted her ineffectually on the back.
“I will do my best, Mrs Hudson. Come now, do not distress yourself. We cannot be sure it is Megan yet. I will take care of everything, I promise.”
I escaped at last. In my room, I bathed quickly, but the effect of cold water on my face felt less salutary than I had hoped. I dressed and joined the two policemen. They had a carriage waiting, and we were soon on our way through Marylebone to Portman Square where the body had been found.
We travelled in silence through the darkness and the gusting rain. With the combination of the hour — not yet eight o’clock on Sunday morning — and the appalling weather, the streets looked deserted. Fortunately, we reached the murder site within a few minutes. Any longer, and I should have fallen asleep again.
They had not moved the body, and I could see that the scene had been carefully preserved. A uniformed officer stood guard, stoic in the freezing downpour. A tarpaulin covered the corpse, preserving both the evidence and the dignity of the unfortunate victim.
“She’s been savaged quite dreadfully, Mr Holmes,” Thorne warned as he drew back the covering.
The destruction to the human being that had been Megan Reid made my gorge rise. The body on the pavement bore no resemblance to the gentle and thoughtful young woman who served our coffee. Someone’s powerful fists had rendered her features to pulp. In addition to the vicious blows, I observed a number of stab wounds and slashes to the chest and abdomen. The face and throat had been so deeply slashed that I could see the bone in places. The blood that had not yet congealed ran with the rain into the gutter. The stench of blood and viscera made me swallow hard, despite my familiarity with ghastly death. To see someone I had known, albeit slightly, thus reduced to a battered corpse, challenged my ability to retain my sangfroid almost beyond limit.
Despite the awful destruction, I could recognise the dead woman by the mostly undamaged right side of her face, her wild red hair, and the silver cross around her neck that she always wore. Her calloused hands, worn from her years of nursing as well as the work she performed for her aunt, and the distinctive crooked little finger on her left hand made her identity indisputable.
“Yes,” I said, “this is Megan Reid. Was Megan Reid. The rain has washed away most of the signs of the killer, I fear.”
Thorne released a long breath. “I hoped you could advise us, Mr Holmes. Truth to tell, we have little to go on. It seems like a random killing. Who would want to murder an innocent young woman?”
“There were no signs of robbery? I see her cross is intact, though I cannot imagine it’s worth much.”
“We found ten shillings and sixpence in her purse,” the policeman replied. “Her skirts do not seem to have been disturbed, but we will not know for certain if she was violated until we hear the surgeon’s report.”
“No, of course.” I studied the street and the area immediately adjacent to the body, but I saw nothing, nothing. Only the frozen rain and the dark street. I took a breath. I needed to ignore the fatigue and, yes, outrage, and work past them. It is at times like this when Watson is so invaluable. He makes some comment or asks some question that helps me to focus and allows my skills to shine.
“The light is not good,” I said. “No doubt we will have a better idea of her injuries after she is taken to the mortuary.”
“Yes.”
I could hear the distaste in the policeman’s voice. I did not blame him. For all the complaints I and many others have made about those facilities over the years, nothing has been done to improve them.
My mind could not seem to stop drifting.
Stop. Focus. Remember, she’s just a victim. Not Meg. Not the girl whose lilting accent made Watson laugh, and who called Mrs Hudson, “Auntie-darling.” Oh, God, Watson. Mrs Hudson. What do I tell them? That I found her mutilated almost beyond recognition?
Focus.
I knelt down and examined the young woman and forced my mind to go through its usual steps.
“The killer is male, well-built, probably aged between twenty and forty. He wears a signet ring on his right index finger. You can clearly see the imprint of it here, on her face where he punched her. Hard to tell what that image is in this light, but it looks like a lion’s head. He is medium height, no more than five foot six or seven. And he is right-handed.”
The policeman made a note in his book and waited for my elucidation. “From the bruising and the angle of the knife wounds we can estimate the height of the killer. There are no fewer than three bruises on the side of Meg — the victim’s face. You can see the imprint of the ring quite clearly here. The damage is primarily to the left side indicating a right-handed killer. His sex, age, and fitness we can deduce from the violence of the blows. The light is too poor for a more detailed analysis; I shall go to the morgue later today to take a closer look. I cannot do a thorough job here on the pavement in the rain and the dark.”
I straightened my back. “What brought her out in this dreadful weather?”
“According to one of Mrs Hudson’s maids, Miss Reid made a habit of attending St Thomas’s Church in Bryanston Street to help prepare for the matins. She left a few minutes after seven and about seven-fifteen a Mr Tobias Jarvis discovered her body, as you see it.”
“Did he offer a reasonable explanation for being out on such a day?” I asked.
“Yes, Mr Holmes. He claims he visits his mother most mornings and it’s his habit to cut through the square. He raised the alarm at once, and Constable Burke took over.”
The pudgy, spotty-faced fellow nodded in agreement. (When did the Metropolitan Police Force start hiring children?)
“That’s right, Mr Holmes,” the infant officer said. “I noticed at once that, even in this weather, she still felt warm. I would have kept the witness here for you to question, sir, but given the hour and the inclement weather, I let him go. We have his name and his mother’s address — he means to spend the day with her — so we can follow up with him when we are ready.”
He handed me the information written on a page in his notebook. I had to admit that he had done well in preserving the scene and identifying the corpse. Still, “You have only his word for it that he is staying with his mother,” I pointed out. “For all you know, he may be the killer.”
The constable shook his head. “Not he, sir. Reedy-looking chap. Looked fairly green at the sight of the corpse. He dressed immaculately, and I couldn’t see a drop of blood on him. Also, his hands looked delicate. I doubt he’d ever used them for anything more savage than adding perfume to his bath water.”
The sergeant chuckled. “No way this milquetoast is a killer, Mr Holmes, but I did have a constable escort him to his mother’s home, to verify the address and relationship.”
“Excellent,” I said. “Did the witness see anyone? If the victim still felt warm, she must have died within minutes of his discovery, given the temperature.”
“Jarvis says not,” Thorne replied. “What with the weather, and, I reckon, because it’s Sunday, the street’s deserted. That’s what Jarvis told Burke, anyway.” The constable nodded in agreement. “At this stage it looks to me like a random attack. Poor soul.”
“Well, there is little enough we can do for her now, other than dispensing justice.” I managed to suppress a yawn.
“I am going to pay our friend Mr Jarvis a visit, Mr Holmes,” Thorne said. “Would you care to join me?”
I hesitated. I confess, despite my outrage at the horrific murder of young Miss Reid, my body craved sleep. I consoled myself with the thought that the interview with Jarvis should not take long and, besides, it had to be done. Best to take care of it at once before the fellow’s memory failed. And so, I agreed.
Jarvis’s mother lived in Edwards Mews, a mere stone’s throw from Portman Square. Our witness answered the door himself, a white apron tied around his waist, and a rose-decorated teapot in his left hand. His tall, thin frame was topped by a long narrow face. His jaw, though large enough to appear impressive, hung loosely, giving him the look of an unhappy Basset hound.
“Oh, it’s you, isn’t it?” he gushed in a high and tremulous voice. “Mother,” he called over his shoulder, “We have a celebrity come to call on us. Come in, do, Mr Holmes, Sergeant.”
Ignoring the policeman’s snort of amusement, I followed the fellow into a small and stifling room, a dizzying confection of lace, embroidery, and chintz fabrics. The sergeant’s amusement seemed even more intense, and he attempted to cover a guffaw with his handkerchief.
“Mr Sherlock Holmes,” the old woman said. I almost missed her as her gown looked as gaudily decorated as the room. Only her snowy hair distinguished her from the other gewgaws.
“We love Doctor Watson’s stories about you,” Jarvis cooed, “don’t we, Mother?”
She nodded and raised a heavily veined limp hand. I couldn’t say if she meant me to shake it or kiss it. I chose the former.
“I will be sure to pass along your compliments,” I said in as firm a voice as I could muster. The sergeant’s amusement nearly unsettled me, and it felt incongruous compared with the scene we had just left. I could hardly blame him, however; distress must find release in some form after all.
“We need to ask you about your experience this morning, Mr Jarvis,” the policeman said, managing to sound as pompous as Lestrade at his best.
“Oh, awful,” the witness exclaimed in an appallingly gleeful voice. “So much blood! I told Mother — didn’t I, Mother? — that the ground around that poor girl was just covered in it. A red lake! I think I got some on my shoes.”
He glanced down in a peevish way at his feet, and realised he was wearing his slippers. “Oh yes, I took them off. Wouldn’t want to track it through Mother’s house, would I, Mother?”
“Sad situation,” the woman said, “but, there, no better than she ought to be, I’ll warrant.”
“She served as a nurse,” I snapped, “and just came home from South Africa. She was on her way to church when she was murdered.”
The old woman mumbled something that might have been an apology. I ignored her and proceeded to fire a series of questions at the man.
No, Jarvis had seen nothing either immediately before he found the body, or after.
No, he had not heard any cries in the moments before he reached the corpse.
No, indeed, he most certainly had not touched her. Oh, the thought! He would have nightmares for ever.
The sergeant offered his brisk thanks and followed me out of the house. I felt too angry to even acknowledge the awful pair, the mother as grotesque as the son.
“A bad day all round, Mr Holmes,” Thorne said. “Can I give you a lift home?”
Under normal circumstances I would have opted to walk. Calming down before I faced Mrs Hudson would no doubt be the wise thing to do. However, I doubted my legs could manage even so brief a journey, so I accepted his offer.
As we rode in his carriage to Baker Street, I said, “By your leave, Sergeant, I shall see what I can learn from Mrs Hudson. Perhaps Megan said something to her that could suggest a motive for the murder. At this stage, however, I suspect that you may be right when you described this killing as a random attack. To that end, I shall see if I can find out about anyone with a mental instability who has been roaming the area of late.”
“There are no small number who have come back from the war,” the sergeant said, shaking his head. “May the Lord have mercy upon them. God knows what they saw over there, fighting the Boer. Well, after I drop you off at Baker Street, Mr Holmes, I shall return to the station. The body will be at the morgue this afternoon if you’d like to follow up.”
“I shall. Thank you, Sergeant. Oh, by the bye, I assume you will be handing the case over to Scotland Yard?”
“That is correct, Mr Holmes. I will pass on all the information to Inspector Lestrade. It will be up to him if he wants me to continue with the case or not.”
*
Mrs Hudson had calmed somewhat by the time I returned. That is to say, she’d stopped screaming hysterically, but sat at her kitchen table, weeping. She grasped my hand and tried to speak when I entered the room, but words were beyond her. Still, I knew what she tried to say. I sat beside her and said as gently as I could, “I am so sorry, Mrs Hudson. I’m afraid there is no doubt that it is Meg.”
She leaned forward and rested her head upon my shoulder as she surrendered to her dreadful sobs. I cannot think when I last felt so helpless. At least her weeping remained mostly silent. I put my arms around her and patted her back. I have no idea if she found it helpful, but at length the terrible sobbing slowed.
“Who?” she managed to murmur as she regained her self-control. “How?”
“We have no answers as yet, but I assure you, I shall not rest until I have learned everything I can about this outrage. I will use every skill I possess, and I give you my word, I will uncover the truth.”
She patted my cheek with a damp hand and nodded. I wanted to leave and escape to the peace of my room, but I could think of no way to do so without seeming a bounder.
“Perhaps a little brandy will settle you — yes, yes, I insist.” I nodded at one of the maids and she scurried to do my bidding. Not for the first time that morning I wished Watson or Beatrice was present. I am ill-equipped to deal with weeping women.
The maid returned with a glass of brandy, and I waited until my poor landlady had sipped a little before saying, “I do not wish to distress you, my dear Mrs Hudson, but do you feel able to answer a few questions?”
She nodded. “If it will help you find whoever did this to poor Megan,” she whispered in a husky voice.
“Thank you, I know she recently returned from South Africa, and has only been here for a few weeks. Yes?”
“Yes.” She sipped a little more of the drink and cleared her throat. “Yes,” she said more clearly. “She has been a nurse for ten years. She trained in Scotland and worked in a hospital there for a long time. People used to stop my sister in the street and tell her what a kind and thoughtful young woman she had raised.
“Later, when the war with South Africa started in ’99, she volunteered to serve and left with the first group. She spent most of her service in Bloom— Boom—”
“Bloemfontein?”
“Yes, that’s it. It sounds so pretty, doesn’t it? But from what Meg said it was dreadful. She didn’t mind the hospital, which is where she worked most of the time, but she wept when she told me about the camp, concentration camps they call them.”
“Why did she come home?”
“Because of her health.” She took another sip of brandy before continuing. “She had such a terrible time of it. Not just her, of course, all those poor girls went through so much. Such long hours they had to work, and what little food they had doesn’t bear mentioning. With one thing and another, Megan came down with dysentery, and she just couldn’t get better. A few months ago she suffered a heart attack, and the doctors told her that she would probably never fully recover; certainly she would never be physically able to manage the terrible labour of nursing. A few weeks later she had a second heart attack, a much more serious one. At that point, the doctors said her health had deteriorated too much, and they sent her home.”
Even her swollen red eyes could not disguise her anger. “Do you know, Mr Holmes, that when she left South Africa, she lost all the medals she had been awarded and her pension. I suppose they don’t matter now. Meg felt so dreadful about leaving, oh, not because those things were important to her, but because she knew the desperate need for good nurses.”
“Why did she come here to London and not go home to Scotland?”
“My sister and I discussed it when Meg wrote to tell us to expect her,” Mrs Hudson replied. “Scotland is fierce cold this time of year, and her village even more so. Meg had become used to the heat of South Africa, though she says — said — it gets terribly cold there at night. Not only that, but Braemar, where my sister’s family lives, is the very devil to get to, if you’ll pardon the expression. Anyway, given the lass’s poor health, we felt she would do better here in London, at least until she felt a little stronger. She hoped to go home by Easter if she felt well enough, and if the weather improved enough. Now, though…” And the tears began anew.
Again, I struggled against an urge to leave her to her grief, but I could not in all conscience do that. Only a coward would flee from a woman in such distress. A coward or a cad. Besides, I still had a number of questions. Yes, I could wait until she calmed, but that would not help my investigation, nor, in the long run, would it help her.
“I am truly sorry to trouble you at such a time, Mrs Hudson,” I began, but she made a supreme effort and patted my hand.
“My dear Mr Holmes,” she said, through tears, “if you could only know what a comfort you are. I cannot imagine how I would face this terrible day if it were not for you.”
“Thank you,” I said, bewildered. I had not done anything worthy of such commendation. “I need to know a little more about Megan. It is entirely possible the person who attacked her did not even know her. On the other hand, if the killer were known to her, the more I know about her, the greater my chances of finding him.”
“But who would want to harm such a good soul?” the poor woman said. “A nurse, a young woman recently returned from serving her country, God-fearing, gentle, and in ill-health, to boot. You met her, Mr Holmes.”
“I did. A fine young woman, and everything you say. But we all have enemies, even if those enemies are deluded in their thinking.”
“If Megan had ever upset anyone, she never spoke of them. She would never intentionally hurt anyone, you know, Mr Holmes.” She fell silent a moment before adding, “Would you like to look in her room? I believe she kept some letters from people she served with. Perhaps they may tell you something. If you don’t mind, I should probably get back to work.”
“Oh, my dear Mrs Hudson, you cannot possibly work today. You must go and lie down. No, I insist. I am sure the girls can manage everything. You have them so well-trained, you know.”
After a moment’s hesitation she nodded. “Well, I suppose you are right. I could use a lie down.”
The dead woman’s room sat half-way under the stairs. Despite being small, it possessed a charm. The floral wallpaper and brass bed spoke of comfort, as did the eiderdown quilt and the handmade floor mat. Everything looked clean, neat, and well ordered. The pillow still bore the indentation of the head that lay there only a few hours ago. A fire smouldered in the grate; presumably Miss Reid lit it before leaving early this morning on her benevolent mission. Though the fire had died down, the room remained cosy enough.
Beside the bed was a dressing table on which stood a lamp, a well-worn leather-bound Bible, and a photograph of a group of people outside a cottage: her family, I presumed.
I sat on the bed and went through the drawers. The first contained items related to her nursing service: her caps, pins, cuffs, and so forth. In the second, I found about five or six dozen letters. Most were from her family, one from a hospital in Scotland, and several from unknown people. All but a handful had British stamps; the exceptions had been sent from South Africa. In addition, I discovered several dozen postcards, most with pictures of nurses on the front, and all from someone who signed themselves ‘E.’ Any other time, I would have sat and read them all, but I felt too weary and could not risk missing something important. I could not find an address book. I must remember to ask Mrs Hudson about it.
With the stack tucked under my arm and satisfied that I had recovered as much as I could, I left the silent and empty room to its ghosts.
In the hallway, I almost collided with Maisie, one of Mrs Hudson’s newest maids.
“Begging your pardon, Mr Holmes, sir,” she said, “but I just left your breakfast in your room. Oh, and I meant to tell you something. Uhm…”
I waited, losing patience. “Well?”
“Sorry, sir, I forgot. It’ll come to me.”
She scampered away and left me feeling even more muddle-headed than I had before. I realised that I had hardly eaten in the past few days, any more than I had slept, and despite Watson’s fiction that I don’t eat when I am on a case, I do find it necessary to replenish my reserves from time to time. That being the case, I went up to my room to eat before facing the bitter winter day again.
To my surprise, Watson sat at the table, doing fair justice to eggs, toast, coffee, and all the other delights the staff had prepared.
“Oh, there you are, Holmes,” he said. “Good grief, you look rough. That wretched Holland case of Mycroft’s, I suppose?”
“You suppose correctly, at least for the most part. I am pleased to see you, Watson.”
“I am pleased to be seen, even by eyes as red as yours. I told Maisie to let you know I had returned.”
“She forgot. Never mind. It seems an age since we last stood together under this roof. I have felt your absence keenly, I confess. I fear the clinic is taking every minute of your time.”
“It would keep me busy if there were three of me,” he said with a wry smile, “though the staff are excellent; I even managed to sleep for a couple of hours last night. Each day we get new patients, and all of them in dreadful condition. I shudder to think what would have happened to them if Beatrice had not opened the clinic. We are doing good work, Holmes.”
“I have no doubt of it. All the same, you cannot continue to manage virtually single-handed.”
“Oh, tosh, I am not working alone. We have almost a full contingent of nurses, all of them Nightingale trained, and there are some new doctors that I hope with start in a couple of weeks. As a matter of fact, Michaelson started this morning. He’s an old army war-horse like myself, so he knows how to treat wounded soldiers.”
I refilled his coffee cup and mine and said, “I hope that means you can take some time off. You look utterly exhausted, old chap.”
“That’s the plan. Now, what has been happening here? I heard there has been some upset this morning. Maisie said you’d tell me all about it.”
As I sipped my coffee, I said, “I fear so. You have met Mrs Hudson’s niece, have you not?”
“Miss Reid? I should say so. Charming young woman, and very obliging.” He suddenly paused, the toast not quite to his lips. “Why? What has happened?”
“I am sorry to tell you that the police found her body this morning. She had been murdered.”
“No!” he cried. “Oh, Holmes, what a terrible thing. I am truly sorry to hear it. Poor Mrs Hudson must be distraught.”
“She is. I lent what comfort I may, but I fear that is not my forte.”
“You do yourself a disservice, my dear fellow,” he said, rising and tossing his napkin onto the table. “Where is she now?”
“I gave her some brandy and sent her to lie down.”
“Excellent. You handled it beautifully, Holmes. I shall go check on her, and let you eat your meal. Then we shall find who did this monstrous thing.”
“You mean to come with me?” I did not even try to hide my pleasure. “You are so tired.”
“And you are exhausted. But for Mrs Hudson, Holmes. Come, man, finish your coffee. The game, as they say, is afoot.”
