The Bleeding Heart Mystery
Holmes was lounging on the sofa, his tall, spare form swaddled in a purple dressing gown, his long, thin hands moving with grace and precision. I’m no musician, but I didn’t need my companion’s unique skills to guess that he was replaying, in his mind’s-eye, Sarasate’s Zigeunerweisen, which we had heard performed at St. Johns’ Square the previous evening.
In such reveries, Holmes was no longer the man I had so often caricatured in my case notes. Instead, his keen features were transformed. With eyes closed and a gently smiling face he was, at that moment, at the zenith of the metronome’s swing. I knew that, in an instant, the pendulum could swing back and my dear friend would once again be the determined sleuth-hound of fond acquaintance.
“My dear Watson” he said, lazily, “do be seated. Mrs. Hudson has been in a whirl all morning, and should you continue to lurk in the doorway I fear she will be compelled to sweep you up.”
I’d often heard Holmes’s clients tell their extraordinary stories, but now that I was possessed of a tale of my own, I found it wasn’t such an easy task. So there I remained, paused on the threshold, contemplating how best to broach the subject.
Something about my inaction caught Holmes’s interest and he bolted upright, every inch the detective once again. “I take it from your attitude that this morning’s excursion to Leather Lane was more fruitful than you’d hoped?”
I’d risen early and left our rooms while Holmes was still asleep. I certainly hadn’t mentioned any appointments. It was true that, by now, I was used to such remarkable pronouncements from my friend, but my amazement remained.
“I honestly have no idea how you deduced that,” I exclaimed to Holmes’s evident delight.
“Ah, Watson! The notes on today’s expedition are written very clearly. You are, as I’m sure you’d agree, a creature of habit. You generally do your rounds on foot, leaving and returning at much the same time every day. In the evening, you polish your shoes and lay out your bag, ready for the next day. Today you rose early, and leaving your bag behind, took a hansom to Leather Lane.”
“But – ” I began.
“Your shoes” Holmes chuckled. “They still have their shine. And, as to the location – well that handkerchief you keep in your sleeve, in fine military style, shows traces of mustard. Put that together with the sesame seed on your collar, and I’d hazard you’ve partaken of a breakfast of that famed Yiddish delicacy, a salt beef beigel. A speciality of Leather Lane eateries.”
“I admit to everything you say. But you couldn’t possibly know my frame of mind.”
“Oh, come, you do me a disservice.” Holmes exclaimed, clearly enjoying every moment. “I would be a poor companion if I hadn’t noticed your prolonged silences. Your sighs. The well-thumbed text books. You’ve been vexed by a problem, and it’s not too much of a leap to believe that this morning’s unusual expedition has something to do with it. Now, my dear fellow, pull up a chair and don’t keep me in suspense any longer.”
I did as instructed and, in our customary positions, with Holmes on one side of the fireplace and I on the other, I began.
“You’ve heard, no doubt, of the great American inventor, Dodson Hughes?”
“The whole world surely knows that gentleman’s name.” Holmes said. “Don’t tell me he’s a patient?”
“Not exactly. This isn’t widely known, for fear of spooking his shareholders, but for the past year Hughes been suffering from increasingly severe bouts of bronchitis. I have a young patient similarly afflicted and I had, in truth, begun to despair of ever finding a treatment which would ease her distress. A few days ago, an old friend from my Barts days mentioned that Hughes was rumored to be working on a new inhalation device. Now, it sounds like pure quackery. Even if he has been haunting the lecture halls, the man has no medical training. But it’s a terrible thing to watch a child fade before your eyes and feel helpless to stop it, so I determined to see Hughes and this miracle device of his.”
“He lives in the country, does he not?” Holmes asked, his interest piqued.
“West Norwood, I believe, but his workshops are in Hatton Garden, and he commutes to the City regularly to supervise the work. As you know, most of Hatton Gardens’ businesses are diamond cutters and jewelry-makers. Visitors are strictly forbidden and, given the nature of Hughes’ work, he adheres to the same rules as his neighbors, so that all business meetings are conducted in local cafés.”
“Hence the beigel?”
“Indeed.”
“And his inhalation device?”
“Still in development, he said. But you’ll be amused to know that he calls it his ‘Peace Pipe’! It is only right that after creating so many murderous machines, he should do something to try and save lives. It will, I think, be some time before it enters production and he was violently protective of its secrets. However . . . .”
“That isn’t what brought you to rushing back to Baker Street with mustard on your whiskers?”
“No,” I laughed. “That was something infinitely stranger.”
Sandwiched between Kings Cross and Farringdon, Hatton Garden is one of London’s few remaining villages. No doubt its cobbled byways, timber-framed buildings, and tightly-packed lanes will soon be brushed away, as the city continues to replace wood with stone, quaint beauty with brash commerce. But, for now, this Medieval remnant clings determinedly on. Indeed, just as Scotland Yard once belonged to the kings of Scotland, this part of London once belonged to the Bishops of Ely, and is still technically, if not actually, in Cambridgeshire.
It was the great Tudor queen, Elizabeth, who grabbed part of the Bishop’s estate for one of her favorites, Sir Christopher Hatton. Down a narrow alley, hidden behind rows of marble-fronted homes, still stands the tiny tavern where the young princess is said to have danced around a cherry tree in the courtyard one May morning. Walk down Ely Place, past the church where Henry and Catherine of Aragon famously feasted, and you enter Bleeding Heart Yard – a warren of dark backstreets that will, with many twists, turns, and dead ends, eventually lead you to Leather Lane. It was there, in a cozy corner of a kosher café, that my tale began.
As I spoke, Holmes leant forward, regarding me with eyes kindled. It was unusual to find myself on the receiving end of such fevered scrutiny and I must admit, it wasn’t an all-together comfortable experience.
Fifty-years of age, with a shock of snow-white hair and an overgrown Van Dyke beard to match, Dodson Hughes was a man in whom passions ran deep. Several times during our interview he accused me of trying to steal his secrets. It was only when I’d shared my own researches into the bronchial disease that afflicted him that he visibly relaxed – realizing, perhaps, that I could provide the expertise he lacked. However, our interview had barely begun when the day took a distinct turn for the bizarre.
The café door flew open and a small, red-haired man, blanched with terror, gave a strangled yell and fairly fell across the threshold.
He was gathered up and deposited at a spare table with all the efficacy you’d expect from an establishment that serves all-day breakfasts to the hurried and the hungry. I rose to offer my services, for he was much excited, with the sort of wide-eyed near-hysteria I’d often seen in those who’ve endured a sudden shock.
“She’s back!” he whispered “Back . . . with death at her heels!” The café fell silent. A small clique had gathered around the table, but now, even those who’d remained seated turned to regard the agitated speaker.
“There! There in the Yard! Drenched in blood!” he sobbed, his voice cracking. “There will be death. Mark my words! Death!” And with that final cry, he fell into a dead faint.
A waft of smelling salts brought him round and a small brandy did the rest, but the fellow was a mess – sweaty-faced, pale, trembling, and clearly embarrassed to have made such a spectacle of himself. Indeed, no amount of cajoling could compel him to elaborate on his curious pronouncement.
Hughes dismissed the whole thing as occasioned by “too much drink and too little learning”. The café owner spoke witheringly of “soft-brained men repeating tales told to keep children a-bed”. The patrons returned to their business dealings and the whole thing was quickly brushed under the table.
“I naturally insisted on escorting my new patient to a cab and Hughes – irritable at the interruption – hastened off to his place of business in something of a funk. But there’s a mystery here, Holmes! I can taste it.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows. “The case does have some interesting elements. Yes. Very interesting . . . If you would permit me?”
He took hold of my left sleeve and proceeded to examine the cuff.
“This stain – was it here yesterday?”
“I hadn’t noted it. Oil from the hansom’s step, no doubt.” I commented.
Holmes said nothing, but I could tell from the flush of his cheek that his keen mind had found something of interest in my curious tale.
“You think there’s something in it?”
“Yes” Holmes said quietly. “I do.”
“Off to Hatton Garden, then?” I hazarded.
“Naturally! Holmes chuckled. “Who am I to argue with a client? Especially when he also happens to be my dearest friend.”
There’s been a Bleeding Heart Tavern in Hatton Garden for at least four-hundred years. The current building is a mere one-hundred-and-fifty years old, but its small, round, sunken bar tells of an older history, and of one pub built on the ashes of another. The bricks and mortar may be Georgian, but the design testifies to a time when bears were baited in the pit while the patrons sat atop, drinking and laying bets. Today, it still has a bad reputation: “Drunk for a penny. Dead drunk for two-penny” was the disquieting boast emblazoned over the door.
We stepped down into the main bar and Holmes made a bee-line for a rickety table inhabited by a baby-faced man in worn tweed who had the look of one permanently delighted by the world.
Joseph March was what Holmes terms a “cultural historian”, specializing in London’s myths and legends. How he knew Holmes I never did discern, but then, given how reluctant my flat-mate could be to leave Baker Street at all, the fact that he knew anyone beyond myself and Mrs. Hudson was a source of constant surprise.
“Pleased to see my telegram reached you, Joe”, Holmes began. “What do you have for me?”
“Well, Mr. ‘Olmes, with your love of the grotesque, I’m surprised you don’t already know the tale. It’s about a murder too. Right up your street.”
Holmes laughed heartily. “Ah, Joe, but you’re the expert. Please. Watson and I are all ears.”
“Well, you asked if there might be any tales about the area that could account for the good doctor’s curious experience. Truth be told, it didn’t take much digging. It’s a fairly well-known tale, tho’ the legend mixes things up a bit. In reality, the supposed victim – Lady Hatton – lived a long life, but of the fact that a murder took place here there’s no doubt. Places don’t get named Bleeding Heart Yard on a whim!”
March closed his eyes, lent back, and began to weave his tale, his tone, just as a story-teller’s should be: Low, warm, and enticing.
“Now, this was in the time of good Queen Bess. Holborn Hill, on which we sit, was still an actual hill, with trees and pathways winding down towards the valley floor. Today that’s where the viaduct stands, but back then you would have found the River Fleet. Today, that great waterway is nothing more than a boarded-over sewer, but then it was fast and deep enough for the Queen to sail her barge all the way up to the Clerkenwell. But some things haven’t changed. This tavern was still a tavern, not long since built. And the courtyard outside was still a popular place for festivities. And this is where our story starts. In these streets, under these stars, but many, many lifetimes ago . . . .”
One evening, or so the story goes, Lady Hatton was hosting a feast. She was an ambitious lady, keen to impress the Queen and the Court. Desperate, in fact. So desperate that she’d made a pact with the devil. In exchange for one glorious evening – a ball, the greatest names in the land in attendance – she would sell him her soul.
This was to be the evening. Everything would be perfect. Every dish, every drink, every moment. And at the centre of it all, there she would be. Stylish. Beautiful. The belle of the ball. At the end of the evening, it was promised, everyone would know her name. She would be the talk of London. Her future seemed assured, and all it would cost was something that she’d never seen and didn’t believe in.
Fiddlers! Fiddlers! Fiddle away!
Resin your catgut! Fiddle and play!
A roundelay! A roundelay! A roundelay, I say!
Fiddle, fiddle, fiddle, away!
The musicians strike up a tune. The Lady opens her doors. And the ball begins.
And what a ball! It’s like a waking dream. Live birds cut from the belly of a roasted boar whirl aloft, dropping gold leaves into the laps of the guests. Gem-encrusted tapestries glitter under the flickering candlelight. Jugglers and acrobats perform impossible feats. Dancers appear to walk on air. And everyone who is everyone is here.
As midnight approaches, the doors are thrown open once more and the musicians lead the guests out into the courtyard – the courtyard that’s just outside this tavern. And as they dance and sing, a strange sound is heard. A deep clattering, like hooves running across the rooftops. But no matter. The party’s in full flow and no one even notices the stranger who suddenly appears in their midst. At least, not at first.
Tall, dressed in black, he joins the dance, leaping, bounding into the courtyard. He throws himself into the air, pirouettes, lands with the surety of a cat, then leaps again. He leaps, he pirouettes, lands. Again. And again. The musicians take their cue from him. Faster and faster they play, their fingers getting bloody – seemingly unable to stop even if they’d wanted to.
Here’s Lady Hatton, resplendent in white silk and ermine. He grasps her by the waist and springs into the air. Again, and again, and again. Lady Hatton is delighted. Swirling high over her guests’ heads, she’s laughing, gasping. She glances down and sees the party-goers begin to scatter. She turns, dizzy with exaltation, looks at her dance partner and finally sees what her guests have seen. The devil in all his satanic glory. His hands – claws. His feet – hooves. His face twisted into a wide, wide, smile and, on his head, a pair of vast horns, burning with the fires of damnation.
And the next morning, when the guests returned to see if what they had seen was a dream or not, what did they find? No signs of the sumptuous feast. No signs of the night’s revels.
Of poor Lady Hatton, needless to say,
No traces of her have been found to this day,
Nor of the terrible dancer who whisk’d her away;
But out in the courtyard – and just in that part –
lay, throbbing and still bleeding: A Huge Human Heart!
It was just as March had concluded his tale – thumping the table and laughing heartily – that an eerie cry rocked the tavern. Holmes vaulted across the room and was at the door almost before the call had died out. I followed, fast on his heels, dreading, in the thrall of March’s singular narrative, what we might find. We weren’t disappointed. There, standing in the courtyard by the old water pump, was Lady Hatton herself. Her robes had once been white but now they were drenched in blood. A dark, gaping hole lay in her chest and in her hand she was holding her own heart. She looked at us, smiled with a sort of rapacious desperation, then threw the heart into the air. I scanned the dark sky, but could see nothing, and when I’d glanced back the Lady, too, had vanished.
We stood for some time in the chill air, considering this unexpected turn of events. Holmes said nothing, but in the half-light from the tavern’s windows, I distinctly saw him smile.
Needless to say, news of the apparition spread quickly and, within the quarter-hour, the tavern was packed with locals jostling for position at the pewter-topped bar. With ale to loosen their tongues and lessen their fears, there was none of the reticence to speak that the patrons in the café had displayed. The talk was wild, and several times I overheard a newcomer loudly proclaiming that he’d “seen it all” while credulous onlookers Ooh-ed and Ahh-ed at his tale.
March was as giddy as a schoolboy, jogging from table to table, noting down every half-recalled tit-bit of “the Bloody Lady” in a voluminous notebook. Holmes, no less intrigued, sat quietly, soaking it all up in his own inimitable way.
Eventually the crowds began to disburse and Holmes and I headed for Lincoln’s Inn, where the small, green cabman’s shelter would be sure to provide a driver looking for late-night trade.
The hansom dropped us at Baker Street just after midnight and, although the day had been long and wearying, I was too eager for Holmes’s take on events to feel sleepy.
My companion ensconced himself in the fireside armchair, pulled a cigar from the coal scuttle, and began to puff complacently.
“Well?” I asked.
“Well, Watson?” he replied, grinning at my obvious impatience.
“Well?” I repeated.
Holmes glanced at me mischievously, and I feared we would spend the whole evening in a round-robin of “Wells”, when he suddenly he slapped his thigh and burst into a paroxysm of amusement.
“Watson, this has, I think, been one of the most entertaining evenings I’ve had for many years!”
“Entertaining? Horrifying I would have said!” picturing the lady and her bloodied dress with a shudder.
“Oh, my dear doctor – ”
“No, no” I interrupted, hotly, feeling more than a little chagrin at being the subject of so much levity. “I know the great Sherlock Holmes doesn’t believe in ghosts – ”
“Oh, no, Watson. Please forgive me!” Holmes composed himself. “My humor wasn’t aimed at you. And as for whether or not I believe in ghosts, you know my techniques. I deal in facts, not faith. Should someone present me with unequivocal proof of the existence of ghosts, goblins, or even the Easter hare, then I would accept it wholeheartedly. No, as entertaining as this evening’s events have been, that’s all they’ve been. Entertainment. A distraction. And very well done it was too.”
“But I saw – ?”
“You saw, but you didn’t observe.”
Holmes walked over to the scuttle, took out a fist-sized piece of coal, and began tossing it in the air. Higher and higher.
I watched intently as the small piece of carbon flew from Holmes’s hand, into the air, then back again. “Now,” Holmes said, “watch carefully.” The coal vanished. I saw it leave his hand – thrown into the air – I would have sworn to it.
“But how?” I ejaculated.
“Simple” Holmes replied, pointing to the carpet where I could see that the coal now lay. “Your mind sees what it expects to see. It expected me to throw the coal, and the smallest movement of my hand was enough to persuade you that’s what had happened. But, just like in the courtyard, it’s classic misdirection.”
“Everyone watches the heart, while the Lady makes her exit.”
“Just so. But it’s all been misdirection, don’t you see? Everything. The piece of theatre in the café and tonight’s materialization, everything. You recall that greasy-stain on your coat cuff? Almond oil and starch, I’d vouch – face cream and powder. The tools of the actor’s trade. You did note how sweaty and pale the man appeared . . . .”
“But why?”
“Now that is the question. Who knew of your meeting with Hughes?”
“I’d written to his place of business several times before he granted me an interview.”
“Did you specify why you wanted to meet?”
“I didn’t feel it prudent to mention that his new project was being openly discussed. I merely noted that it might be mutually beneficial if we met.
“So it’s possible that someone on his staff knew he would be meeting the renowned Dr. Watson of 221b Baker Street, for reasons of ‘mutual benefit’.”
I began to see where Holmes’s train of thought was leading. “But this is all-too wonderful!” I exclaimed. “And the episode in the café . . . .”
“Presumably to stop whatever discussion it was imagined that Hughes and yourself might have.”
“And tonight?”
“A piece of last-minute theatricals.”
“You think that all this fuss has been to draw my – our – attention elsewhere?”
“I think, Watson, that’s a question that will best be answered after a good night’s sleep.”
And with that Holmes retired to his bedroom, leaving me to stare into the fire and wonder.
Bleeding Hart Yard was as gloomy during the day as it had been the previous evening. The brick was dark – slick with grease and soot. The hustle and bustle of Leather Lane was just few streets away, but the close-packed buildings muffled all sound and overhung the narrow passage in a way that made the place eerily claustrophobic.
“March mentioned that the Fleet runs nearby,” Holmes said, all the time talking to himself rather than to me. “This pump is rusted solid but doubtless drew water from the Fleet back in the day. Hmm, but now that venerable river has been repurposed, I’d wager that there’s a manhole cover nearby. Ah, yes, yes. Here it is. Making a very handy getaway route for our Bloody Lady. And ha, ha! What have we here?”
He threw me an object, plucked from the ground, which proved to be a lump of shiny, red wax. The Lady’s eviscerated heart!
“The joke of it is,” he said “that it was the elaborate nature of the thing that aroused my interest. If it hadn’t been for the command performance in the café, your meeting with Hughes would have been a footnote over morning coffee and toast.”
As he spoke, his brows drew into two hard black lines, his eyes shining from beneath them with a steely glint. I saw him glance down at the manhole cover, then back up, seeming to scan the path that led from the courtyard to Leather Lane.
“Look here! It was dry yesterday evening, with a sudden downpour overnight. I’d not expected to find our Lady’s footprints, but see this! Hobnails. And look how they’ve been smudged. The movement of manhole cover being dragged back into place. Someone has been here this very morning. Hmm. I wonder?”
Not for the first time in our long acquaintance, I was confused, and admitted as much.
For an answer Holmes gave a distracted nod. “You know, Watson, I think I may take a short constitutional. Care to join me? Oh, and if you would slip your revolver out of your pocket, I’d be very obliged.”
With that, he hoisted off the manhole cover and threw himself into the dark void beneath.
The ladder complained bitterly as I climbed down. Its creaks and groans were such that they created the impression of an army of specters eagerly waiting in the oubliette below. I had to remind myself several times that everything we’d seen so far had been mere mummery.
I was a foot or two from the bottom when the fastenings finally gave way and I was forced to jump the remaining distance, landing hard on my game leg.
The ladder landed on top of me, adding insult to injury, and it took some time for Holmes to help me disentangle myself from the wreckage of rusted iron.
“Are you hurt?
“I’ll live,” I replied, gingerly testing my weight on my old war injury. It hurt like the blazes, but I was determined not to be the laggard.
Although the narrow tunnel curved above our heads, with many feet of London clay on top, we had no need for Holmes’s flashlight. Besides, the dry cell batteries wouldn’t last long and, for now, we were better off relying on the fat lamps someone had helpfully hung at intervals along the tunnel wall.
Holmes lit one and the flickering light revealed what he seemed to have already guessed. The route of the old River Fleet, culverted by brick, ran straight for a while, following the path of Gray’s Inn Road, before curving down towards the Holborn Viaduct. But there was another passage, which had been roughly cut into the tunnel walls. The work looked to be old and I was reminded that every part of London has tales of such secret passageways. There had been a convent here once. Maybe these had been used by Catholics to escape the wrath of mad Queen Mary? Maybe they were built during the Civil War, or by rum smugglers? Or maybe to allow some rich Lord to visit his mistress unobserved. Who knew? But now . . . .?
Holmes had pulled one of the fat lamps from its sconce and we let its fitful light guide us. I could discern very little in the gloom, though I thought I heard noises ahead. We slowed, Holmes extinguished the light, and for a while we stood, crouched together, in that tomb of wet earth – listening. Yes! Without doubt: Voices.
We edged closer but, in my eagerness, I stepped without thought and my leg, still aching from my earlier tumble, gave way beneath me. I fell with a thud and this time it did not go unnoticed.
A shout. Feet cannon-balling on hard earth. Then, a sound that I shall take with me to my grave. The noise of a lever, much rusted, being thrown and, quick on its heels, a roar like thunder, as a large body of water – the run-off from the evening’s storm, now channeled by some unseen force – began to race down the tunnel behind us. Good Lord! Someone had opened the sluice gates!
Holmes pulled me to my feet, but my leg buckled beneath me and I went down again. A rat brushed past my outstretched shoe. Another, then another followed, and as I struggled back onto my feet, I could hear their terrified squeals as they raced to escape the approaching torrent.
With Holmes near carrying me, we backtracked – by unspoken agreement, making for the little passageway we’d seen cut into the tunnel wall.
Even through the water was only still only ankle-deep, the force of its flow testified to the power of the oncoming deluge. Yet, it wasn’t the water itself I feared – rather what it would bring with it. A fetid smell had begun to fill the tunnel, and I had in my mind the horrible deaths of the six-hundred-and-fifty people onboard the Princess Alice when it sank in the Thames. Not drowned, but burnt and suffocated by the raw sewage which had been flushed into the river, ready to be taken out by the tide.
Already I was gagging, my eyes beginning to sting, and I knew that should I smell the tell-tale rotten-egg scent of hydrogen sulfide we were dead men.
Finally, with cold fingers doing the work that our eyes couldn’t, we found the entrance to the little passageway. Holmes hoisted himself up and I clambered after. I could still hear sounds in the tunnel ahead. For a second, the voices became louder, the footsteps panicked. Then, a cry, long and agonizing, was suddenly extinguished. It was that silence, I think, that spurred me on. The blood in my veins turned to ice, and I ran like the very devil himself was at my heels.
Holmes veered left, and left again, following some instinct or mental map – I knew not which. Dizzy with pain, I followed where he led. At some point he had clicked on his flashlight, but in my fever, I hadn’t noticed until I saw his face in the strangely yellow and distorted glow of the bulls-eye lens, set in an attitude of grim determination.
“There!” He shone the electric torch and, ahead, I saw a little ladder leading up into a brick alcove. He helped me scramble up, following fast on my heels. In front of us was a small wooden door and there we crouched, hammering and hollering as though our very lives depended on it – which at that moment I truly believed they did.
It seemed to me that we spent hours hunkered there, in the dark, with the threat of certain death in every breath. Holmes turned his knuckles bloody with the force of his knocking and, in truth, I thought we were done for. Hoarse, frozen, and cramped, we had just decided to risk returning to the passageway when the hatch opened and a grizzled-faced man, spat, cursed, and hauled us out into the warmth of Dodson Hughes’ machine room.
Hughes himself quickly appeared, red-faced and blustering at what he took to be thieves caught in the act of stealing secrets. Upon recognizing myself and, by association, Holmes, however, his attitude became one of studious attention.
“Why, I’d heard of the great Baker Street detective,” he said, “but I hadn’t known he was psychic! Just this very morning I’d missed some vital documents and, having made the acquaintance of the good doctor, was on my way to consult with you.”
The grizzle-faced man busied around. Blankets and hot chocolate were procured and a place cleared for us by the little stove. There, Holmes – though much abused and still wan from our subterranean adventures – began to put together the missing parts of the puzzle.
“May I ask”, Holmes said “exactly what it is you’ve been working on?”
“A gun, Mr. Holmes. A gun like no other. Single-barrel, belt-fed, capable of six-hundred-and-sixty-six rounds a minute.”
Having seen what just one bullet could do to a man, there was something horrifying about the evident pride that Hughes took in his latest invention, but I held my peace.
“And these documents were plans for that gun? But if I’m not mistaken, you’ve missed them before, have you not?”
“Why yes!” Hughes replied, much amazed. “Played holy hell with the staff. Threatened to get the police involved. I was quite the tyrant for days afterwards!”
“Then they turned up mis-filed?”
“Exactly so!”
“And what about your visitors? The ones you’ve been lodging at the Bleeding Heart Tavern?” Holmes asked.
“Why, my brother-in-law and his business associate. But how in blazes did you know?”
“It stands to reason a stranger wouldn’t be allowed into your sanctum, and any employee who left his post without signing in or out would soon be missed. As to where they’ve been lodging, well, one of them – a small man, red-haired, with a fondness for hobnail boots and theatrics – left his trail clear for all to see.”
Hughes’ face turned to a stony glare. “That would be Taverstock. Never met the man myself, tho’ Henry – that’s my brother-in-law – has spoken of him. Local man. Fingers in lots of pies, and, yes, he does have a fondness for what they call amateur dramatics. Crazy for it, apparently. But I won’t believe my own family has been trying to steal from me. George,” he said turning to the grizzle-faced man “go fetch Mr. Henry for me. Quickly now.”
George, as the elderly engineer proved himself to be, shrugged non-commitally. “He ain’t here, that’s for sure. Was looking for ‘im when I heard all ‘ell breaking loose and found these here strays.”
We could see that the hatch from which we’d been plucked had been hidden away behind a set of heavy shelves and scuffs on the floor showed that they’d moved many times before this morning.
“These tunnels, George . . . .” Holmes asked.
“Ah! I’d heard tales about the vaults and passages that them diamond cutters were said to have dug, so-as to move stock without being robbed. Regular den of thieves round ‘ere. Hatton Gardens being in Cambridge, the City police don’t have no jurisdiction, see? Can’t be too careful. Never would have believed it, though!”
“Are you saying,” Hughes said, slowly, clearly confused, “that Henry and this Taverstock fellow have made off with my plans?”
“Almost certainly. I’d say Henry, having spent some time examining your work and determining which plans were the most valuable, initially tried to have them copied. The doctor’s sudden desire to speak to you probably spooked him, so he returned them and decided to bide his time and try again. I’m afraid that our appearance at the Bleeding Heart Tavern yesterday evening may have forced his hand. So he simply stole plans, leaving the way we arrived, meeting Taverstock in the tunnels to make their getaway together. I’d hazard there’s a boat moored on the Thames by the sewer outlet at Blackfriars’ Bridge.”
“Well, good Lord, man! What are we doing standing here? Let’s have after them! I’ll – ”
Holmes held up a hand, cutting Hughes off mid-sentence. “That”, he said in a voice, quiet and low, “won’t be necessary. See to your sister. She’ll need you now.”
The weight of Holmes’s words seemed to hit Hughes like a brick wall. He reeled, recovered himself somewhat, then nodded soberly. “My God! It’s like that, is it? Oh, my poor Edith . . . and the children. Lord, what will I tell them?” He looked at Holmes with a sort of desperation.
“As little as you can. As much as you dare. The police will want to speak to her, but they’ll be discrete. I can vouch for that.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes! I’ll go to her right away.”
Holmes brushed off any attempts by Hughes to pay for his services and we left the factory in silence, walking once again down Leather Lane towards the small, green, cabman’s shelter. There, Holmes turned to me with a look heavy with melancholy.
“Oh, Watson, how I envy you,” he said.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“My mind is such that it obsesses over the smallest details. Like a kinesigraph, I see the events of this morning, replay themselves frame-by-frame. I analyze each frame as it flickers past, noting this and that. And do you know which frame sticks most strongly in my mind? The one I see replayed, even now, as we sit in this cab?”
“Why no. What is it?” I asked, alarmed. “Is it something we’ve missed?”
“No, no. Not at all. It’s just a number. A silly, inconsequential number. Six-hundred-and-sixty-six.”
“Yes”, I whispered, with a rush of that same horror I’d felt earlier. “The number of the beast.”
Holmes nodded heavily and tapped the top of the hansom. “221b Baker Street, driver, if you would please. And don’t spare the horses.”
NOTES
There is indeed a Bleeding Heart Yard and Bleeding Heart Tavern in Hatton Garden.
The cherry tree that the young Elizabeth I is said to have used as a May Pole was in the courtyard of the Mitre Tavern. The tavern is still there and the tree is preserved in the corner of the front bar. It still bloomed until the end of the last century.
The church where Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon feasted in 1531 is St. Etheldreda’s Church. Built in 1291, it is England’s oldest Catholic Church, and the only surviving part of Ely Palace, which provided the setting for John of Gaunt’s “This scepter’d isle” speech in Shakespeare’s Richard II.
The pieces of poetry that March quotes are from “The House-Warming!!: A Legend of Bleeding-Heart Yard” which appeared in Richard Barham’s The Ingoldsby Legends (printed in 1837).
In one version of the legend, it is Sir Christopher Hatton’s wife who makes a deal with the devil so that Sir Christopher might be a success at Elizabeth’s court. In a different account, the victim is Lady Elizabeth Hatton (Sir Christopher’s daughter). This version places the murder at Hatton House in 1626, where Elizabeth is murdered by the mysterious Spanish Ambassador, with whom she’d been dancing. When found, her body was torn limb from limb, with her heart still pumping blood onto the cobblestones. Neither of these murders happened but, as Joe says, places don’t get called Bleeding Heart Yard for no reason.
Dodson Hughes is undoubtedly Hiram Maxim, inventor of the Maxim machine gun. Presumably Watson changed his name to protect the gentleman’s privacy. Maxim had a small factory at 51 Hatton Garden where, in 1881, he started work on his prototype automatic machine gun. In 1891, the British army adopted his invention and it was used to devastating effect during World War I.
Maxim did suffer from bronchitis, and in 1900 began work on the precursor to the modern-day inhaler, which he called his “Pipe of Peace”.
Hatton Garden has been the centre of the jewelry trade since medieval times and still boasts a tight-knit Jewish community. Sadly, the kosher cafés, where business was conducted, have all but vanished, as gentrification wipes out another piece of London’s distinctive character. The area is believed to have a maze of underground tunnels and vaults. How extensive they are, only the business-owners know.
At the boundary of Clerkenwell and Hatton Garden there’s still a manhole cover through which you can hear the sound of the River Fleet, which flows beneath.
The torch that Holmes uses was an 1899 Ever-Ready electric flashlight. Samples were given out to law-enforcement agencies as promotion, which is presumably where Holmes acquired his. The name “flashlight” refers to the fact that they were designed to be used in flashes rather than continuously, which quickly exhausted the battery.
The kinesigraph Holmes references was invented by the wonderfully-named Wordsworth Donisthorpe in 1876. A sequence of prints, mounted on a strip of paper, was rolled on cylinders and passed before the eyes at the same speed as the recording, with electric sparks lighting each print. The only surviving results of his moving picture experiments are ten seconds of a scene in Trafalgar Square, produced around 1889-1890.
