Sherlock Holmes: The Dark Reckoning (2 page)

It was from a side street that Holmes heard a sarcastic,
mocking voice say, “The game’s a head, Mr. Holmes!”

Holmes turned suddenly, staring into the darkness from
whence the voice came.  He ventured into the side street and saw a figure run
into the labyrinth of streets and alleys, rendering pursuit difficult.  Holmes
gave chase, but the figure had a substantial head start.  Holmes, being a tall
man with a long stride, began to catch up with the figure, who kept turning
into different side streets and alleys.  Holmes felt his heart pounding but saw
his prey getting closer, although he was still quite a long way ahead.  Every
time he turned a corner, Holmes lost sight of him for a short while.

The figure turned into an alley and Holmes followed.  The
alley split into two and, as Holmes reached the split, he stopped to see which
way the figure had gone.  There was a figure running from him in both
directions.  Instant confusion caused Holmes to pause, not knowing which person
to pursue, until both had disappeared into the night.

“Damn it!” growled Holmes under his breath.  He made his way
back to Baker Street, as he recalled the words ‘The game’s a head’.  The voice
was gruff, that of a male.  It had been spoken with a slight cockney accent,
which had seemed laboured, as though false.  Perhaps this man knew something of
the decapitated body.  If so, why should he associate Holmes with it?

Holmes arrived at 221b Baker Street looking somewhat
perplexed.  He stood on the doorstep fumbling around in his pockets for his
keys, which he eventually discovered and promptly dropped onto the step, as his
fingers had become so cold.  The door was opened from within by a small, tubby
woman, about sixty years of age.  Her silver grey hair caught the light shining
from the porch.  Her round face looked puzzled as she stared at the man stooped
down in front of her.  She spoke with a faint Scottish accent, “Aye, I thought
I heard you fumbling.  Whatever are you doing, Mr. Holmes?”

“I’m looking for my keys, Mrs. Hudson.  Ah!  Here they are. 
Good evening Mrs. Hudson,” said Holmes standing up and smiling.  He looked at
the kind face of Mrs. Hudson, which seemed somewhat worried.  She waved her arm
to beckon him in. “Well come in out of the cold, Mr. Holmes.  Are you hungry?”

“I am starving, Mrs. Hudson!” exclaimed Holmes.  “I have
been looking forward to sampling some of your delicious cooking.”

The worried look on Mrs. Hudson’s face dissolved into a
smile, as she listened to the rather unexpected compliment about her cooking. 
“Whatever are we going to do with you, eh? I’ll cook you something up, Mr.
Holmes, and bring it to you shortly.”

Holmes stepped through the doorway into the entrance hall. 
He flashed a smile at his landlady and responded, “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.  I
don’t know how I would ever manage without you.”

The great detective quickly ascended the stairs, barely
noticing the décor of the hall, which consisted of a very expensive carpet plus
two Indian rugs placed along its length.  The walls were covered in a deep red
paper patterned tastefully with gold leaf.  Several paintings lined the walls,
as well as an ornately framed mirror close to the main door.  There were two
oak cabinets, upon one of which stood a clock, its pendulum swinging in
perpetual motion.  The glass doors of the cabinets displayed several ornaments,
collected from around the world.  Just inside the front door stood a hat and
cloak stand that Holmes never made use of.

Holmes reached his apartment door and went to open it, but
instead paused.  He smiled to himself and knocked sharply on the door and
waited for it to be opened.

Dr. John H. Watson sat dosing in an armchair.  He had a
fairly stout build with a round face and stood 5’9” tall.  He was 38 years of
age and had a thick brown moustache, which matched the colour of his hair.  His
hair was wavy and parted on the left side.  Bushy eyebrows framed his blue
eyes.

A loud knock on the door awoke him with a start.  He
stretched, stood up and lazily moved towards the door and opened it.

“Ah! Watson, you will never guess how eventful my journey
home was!”

Watson observed the figure filling the doorframe.  A tall
man with a deerstalker in his hand and shiny jet-black hair, oiled and combed
straight back over his head.  The man had a glint of excitement in his eyes as
he stared directly at Watson.

Watson yawned and stretched his arms.  “What happened,
Holmes?”

Holmes began to recount all that he had seen on his way
home.  He told Watson of the headless corpse, the man who had said ‘The game’s
a head, Mr. Holmes’ and of the man who stepped in the horse manure.

When Watson had finished laughing about the man who ‘bore
the aroma of a soiled stable’, as Holmes had described it, he prompted Holmes
to continue, by asking, “What do you make of it all, old fellow?”

“Well,” Holmes paused, relishing the curiosity evident in
Watson’s gaze.  “My initial observations and deductions are as follows. 
Firstly, the man who spoke the words ‘the game’s a head, Mr. Holmes’ appears to
have been waiting for me to pass.  He probably knew when I would happen past
the side road in which he concealed himself.  Furthermore, this man recognised
me.  Since his voice and accent both sounded disguised, it is possible that I
may know this man, and he was attempting to conceal his identity from me.  The
words he spoke suggest that he knew about the murder in Hyde Park and, also,
that I would be there!”  There was a sudden increase in the tone of Holmes’
voice as his mind made a connection between what had seemed to be two entirely
unrelated events.  “I’m being carefully led into a trap, Watson!” he blasted
with a curiously joyous excitement.

Watson’s shock and confusion were immediately apparent on
his face as he questioned, “Well, go on Holmes.  How did you arrive at
that
conclusion?”

Holmes crossed the room to the table where he had cast his
cloak upon his entrance, burying a pile of books, drugs and hypodermic syringes
that had been left scattered there.  He picked up the cloak and reached into a
pocket and pulled his hand back out.  His eyes shone with excitement as he
showed what he was holding to Watson.

“This, Watson!  This is how I arrived at my conclusion!”

“A piece of paper?” queried Watson, sitting back down in his
chair.  “I don’t understand.”

There was a knock on the door, followed by the familiar
voice of Mrs. Hudson as she said, “Your supper’s ready, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes went to the door, dropping the piece of paper in
Watson’s lap.  “Read it,” he said as he opened the door.  “Thank you Mrs.
Hudson.  Ah!  Shepherd’s pie.  Splendid!  Please do not disturb us again this
evening, Mrs. Hudson.”

“But, what about your plate, Mr…”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!” interjected Holmes, shutting the
door.  He turned to Watson, his thin lips breaking into a smile.  “Well, what
do you make of it, old man?” he asked, as he sat at the table and began to eat.

“Erm, well I don’t know.  It just reads, ‘
Be at Prince of
Wales Gate, Hyde Park at 4:00pm on Wednesday 7
^th
December 1881
’. 
Today’s date.  So what?”

“Don’t you see, Man?!  Look at the handwriting.  Notice how
each letter has been carefully written in a different style.  Also, notice the
smudging of the ink from left to right.  This, together with the lack of
uniformity in the pressure used by the author to hold the pen, leads me to one
obvious conclusion.  The person who wrote it used their left hand, but is, by
nature, right-handed.  Furthermore, but of course you do not know this, I
arrived at the Prince of Wales Gate at 3:55pm this afternoon and waited until a
quarter past four.  During that time, nobody approached me.  It may be a
coincidence, but I think that the person who wrote this note, in handwriting
clearly disguised, knew that a murder would take place.  By inviting me to a
false appointment, the writer manipulated me into discovering the body.  I believe
that my adversary is known to me; hence the disguised handwriting.  If the man
in the side street, who said ‘the game’s a head’, is also the author of this
note, then I am doubly sure that he knows me.  I wonder whether the person, or
people, expected me to deduce this much, or perceive me as somewhat more
asinine,” ventured Holmes, thoughtfully.

“Why do you suppose the author of the note included the
year?  That seems a little fastidious to me” asked Watson.

“I thought the same, my friend.  It looks as though we are dealing
with a particularly meticulous character.  Or, at least, that is the impression
being conveyed.”

“Well, that is quite a comprehensive scenario, old chap,”
commented Watson.

“Yes, isn’t it?” asked Holmes, rhetorically, as his mind
considered the events, trying to make more sense of everything.

The room was laden with books; books on criminology,
criminal psychology and reference books on a wide variety of subjects.  There
were scientific books, and approximately two hundred files containing newspaper
articles with details of crimes committed throughout many years.  Yet more
files contained notes and documents relating to criminal cases.

A small table in the corner of the room was littered with
beakers and conical flasks, all evidence of time consuming experiments that had
been carried out.  A tall cabinet, with glass doors, contained sealed bottles
of chemicals, all of which should have appeared out of place within a living
room.  Contrary to that, these items added a certain character to the room that,
somehow, suited its occupier.

The furniture, although not extravagant, was tasteful and of
high quality, comprising of two high backed armchairs and a three seater sofa. 
There was a dining table with four chairs.  Upon the table was a dirty plate with
a knife and fork.  Most of the table was buried under a large pile of books and,
in one corner, there was a small box containing drugs and hypodermic needles.

A dark grey cloak was draped across the back of one of the
dining chairs, left where its owner had thrown it upon his arrival the previous
evening.

The fireplace had an ornamental mantel, upon which stood an
old pendulum clock, surrounded by a number of artefacts collected from around
the World.  The coal fire was being stoked up by Mrs. Hudson, whilst Holmes,
wearing a red smoking jacket and supporting a pipe between his lips, drew the
curtains back.  The morning sunlight flooded in through the east facing window
bringing a cheerful brightness to the room.  Having successfully started the fire,
Mrs. Hudson smiled at Holmes and left the room, taking the dirty plate with her.

The apartment consisted of this room, two bedrooms and a
bathroom; the kitchen being downstairs in the main house, which was occupied by
Mrs. Hudson.

“Good morning, Holmes.  Did you have a good night’s sleep?” enquired
Watson, as he entered the room.

“Yes, thank you, old fellow.  Mrs. Hudson should return presently
with the breakfast and the morning papers.  I wish to ascertain all I can of the
murder victim from yesterday before we go.”

“Go?  Go where?”

“We are going to the morgue, Watson.  I wish to take a
closer look at the corpse.  The light was beginning to fade when I looked yesterday,
so I may have missed certain details.”

Watson broke wind just as the door opened and Mrs. Hudson
entered, carrying a large tray with the breakfast.  She gave Watson a
disapproving stare, but chose not to say anything.

“Really, Watson!” exclaimed Holmes, “I do apologise about
Watson, Mrs. Hudson.  Do you have the morning papers?”

“I’ll bring them shortly, along with a pot of tea, Mr.
Holmes” replied Mrs. Hudson, as she and the detective exchanged a smile, caused
by Watson’s increasing embarrassment.

“Shall I open a window, Mr. Holmes?” asked Mrs. Hudson,
still smiling.  Holmes shook his head so she left, returning a few moments
later with the tea and papers.  Holmes read through the papers as he ate.  He
did not discover a great deal, except that the head had not been found.

“Come along, Watson!” insisted Holmes, having barely
finished his breakfast.

“But Holmes, I haven’t finished my breakfast!”

“Well, hurry up then!”

Watson mumbled under his breath as he forced the last
mouthful of toast down.

Out in the street, the sun shone brightly and the air was
crisp and cold.  Patches of frost glistened in the morning sunshine, not yet
melted by its weak heat.  Holmes and Watson joined the crowds of people walking
along Baker Street.  Several of the men, including Holmes, were attired in double-breasted
coats, top hats and gloves.  Watson preferred a tweed coat and bowler hat.  The
women mainly wore cloaks over their colourful dresses.  Most wore bonnets and
gloves, some of which were too thin to offer much protection against the cold. 
Some also carried small umbrellas to shield themselves from the bright
sunlight.

It was an invigorating morning, so Holmes and Watson
travelled at a lively pace to keep warm.  The streets were full of horse-drawn
carriages, conveying passengers to their destinations.  The buildings rising
high above the street were of various architectural styles, ranging from the
very old to more recent.

The two men continued along Baker Street and into Orchard Street.  When they reached the end, they turned left into Oxford Street and then
right into Regent Street.  After a short walk along Regent Street, they turned
into the maze of tiny side streets.  As they navigated their way through the
back streets, Holmes noticed the transition in the area.  Here, the buildings
were old slums, decaying remnants of an age gone by.  The two men walked
through narrow passageways where the buildings loomed overhead, creating an
oppressive atmosphere.  The buildings prevented much sunlight reaching the
passages, which made it feel much colder, and more depressing.  This was where
many of the poorer inhabitants of the city lived, discreetly hidden from view,
so as to make it easier for the wealthy to forget about.

The contrast between this and the busy, bustling streets
they had just left was alarming.  Although most people avoided these streets,
and spent little time even acknowledging them, such areas existed all over London, serving as a sad indictment of a ruling class that didn’t care.  The buildings
sagged under their own weight, once proud roofs now drooped between their
supports.  Missing slates allowed rain to enter and rot the timbers inside. 
Broken drainpipes hung precariously above.  Many windows were either boarded up
or cracked, and most were too grimy to see through, thus providing an effective
barrier to keep the poverty within out of sight.

Holmes knew this type of area well, as it attracted so much
crime.  Theft, extortion, prostitution and murder were all commonplace.  So
many crimes went unnoticed, simply because the authorities decided that the victims
didn’t matter enough to bother about.  Useless wretches choked on their own
vomit as they lay oblivious to the World in opium dens; pathetic carcasses believing
they had nothing to live for.

Some of the alleys in this area were only a few feet wide,
with buildings looming up on either side.  Holmes thought that these buildings
somehow mimicked the ruling classes with their ability to suppress those
unfortunate enough to dwell within.

Ahead of the two men, a small group of children were playing
in an alley by skidding across a patch of ice.  Their clothes were little more
than dirty rags, but their faces were smiling, until they noticed the two
well-dressed gentlemen approaching.  The children stopped playing and eyed the
two men with suspicion.  Holmes approached them and offered each a farthing.  He
knew that if he gave them any more, it would probably be stolen from them and
they may get hurt in the process.  They all smiled up at him with appreciation,
though their happy dirty faces could not conceal the sad, sunken eyes and gaunt,
pale features.

“Why did we have to come this way, Holmes?” asked Watson
with compassion, although he already knew the answer.

“Is it not obvious, Watson?” Holmes replied, sadly, “These
people should not have to live like this.  The abject poverty in this area is
overwhelming, and I find it utterly abhorrent.  How many of those children that
we just passed by will die before reaching adulthood?  I can already see the
effects of living in such disease-ridden squalor in their young, tainted eyes. 
How many of those children will end up lying dead in the arms of their weeping
mothers?  What crime did these children commit to deserve such a miserable
existence?  They committed no crime.”

Holmes became silent as he surveyed the area.  The two men
had stopped walking as Holmes looked around, slowly shaking his head.

He turned to Watson and continued, “I feel as though all the
people who end up here indirectly pay, in suffering, the price required to keep
the privileged few on their luxurious pedestals.  There is so much crime here,
but it’s mostly committed out of
sheer
desperation; mothers turning to
prostitution and fathers stealing whatever they can just to provide their
children with a few scraps of food.  It’s all so ugly, Watson, and I cannot
abide the society that allows it to continue.”

The two men continued their journey through the grimy alleys
and under derelict arches in silence.  The dark brown brickwork, covered in
grime, seemed to reflect the dark mood Holmes found himself in.

Eventually, they arrived in Haymarket, the pleasant
environment a complete contrast to the squalor they had left behind.  They
turned into Pall Mall, and continued on to Trafalgar Square, and then, Whitehall.  They passed by Scotland Yard and, a short distance later, arrived at the morgue.

Inside, they were greeted by a very tall, thin man with grey
hair.  His skin was wrinkled and there was a slight grey pallor to his
complexion.  His cheeks were sunken, giving the impression that his skin had
been stretched over his cheek bones.  His dark brown eyes were set back in his
head and looked dull.  He was wearing a blood stained overall that had,
originally, been white.

Upon seeing Holmes and Watson enter, he smiled and said,
“Good morning, Gentlemen.”

“Good morning, Dr. Death,” replied Holmes.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”

“Have you received the body found in Hyde Park yesterday
afternoon, Doctor?”

“Yes, he’s over there,” replied Death, pointing to a covered
body upon one of the examination tables.  The doctor walked over to the table,
followed by Holmes and Watson.  Holmes looked around the morgue and noticed what
a strange place it was.  The walls were whitewashed brickwork that hadn’t been
painted for several years.  There were a few small windows set high in the
walls, each of which had green painted frames.  The ground was cobbled stone
that had been covered with sawdust.

Upon reaching the body, Dr. Death lowered the shroud down to
the waist of the headless figure.  The blue-white skin showed signs of bruising
around the shoulders and chest.

Holmes couldn’t help noticing the similarity between the
smell of the morgue and that of a butcher’s shop.  In addition to the familiar
smell of a butcher’s shop, there was also a strong smell of antiseptic.

“What can you tell me about the victim, Death?” asked Holmes,
unable to resist smiling at his use of the word ‘death’.

“Well, his head has been removed,” smiled the doctor, in
reply.  “Judging by the bruises on his shoulders and, more especially, the
chest, I would say that he was held down whilst lying on his back during the
attack.  The last thing he possibly saw was the murder weapon speeding towards
him.”

Dr. Death paused shaking his head.  Despite his many years
in this profession, he still found the evidence of human cruelty hard to accept.

He then continued, “I would estimate that death occurred
approximately 36 to 48 hours ago.  Judging from the cuts on his neck it’s
probable that he was struck with…”

“A meat cleaver, yes I know,” interjected Holmes. “I briefly
examined the body yesterday afternoon.  Has the head been found?”

“No, Mr. Holmes,” replied Dr. Death.

“My I take a closer look at the wounds on the neck, Dr. Death?”
asked Holmes.

“Of course you can.  If you look, you can see that it took two
blows of the weapon to reach the spine.  The spine, itself, appears to have
been struck several times.  I can’t tell you much more until I perform an
autopsy.”

Holmes looked closely at the wounds, specifically interested
in the angle and depth of the cut lines.

“Look here, Watson,” he said over his shoulder.  Watson
approached and looked at where Holmes was pointing.

“What is it, old fellow?” he asked.

“Judging by the bruising on the chest and the angle of these
cut lines, it is probable that the murderer is right-handed and, possibly,
quite tall.”

“What makes you think that?”

“From where we are standing, on the victim’s left hand side,
the lines caused by the blade slant downwards towards the opposite side of the
neck, as I told you yesterday after I had first seen the body.  Also, notice
that each cut appears to go more deeply into the neck the further down you
look.  This is consistent of the arc the blade would travel if wielded by a
right-handed person.  I would further venture that the bruising on the chest
was caused by the murderer’s left hand pressing the victim down whilst he started
to cut his head off.”

“That makes good sense, Holmes” replied Watson, carefully
examining the wounds. “You mentioned that the spine had been snapped.  How can
you be sure?”

“If you look here, you can see several marks in the spine
made by the blade.  The deepest penetration occurs at this point,” explained
Holmes, indicating the mark on the spine.  “Below this, there is no such
marking.  It’s simply a clean fracture that’s far more likely to have been
caused by the head being snapped off.  Furthermore, the skin at the back of the
neck appears to have been torn, rather than cut.”

Holmes turned to Dr. Death and said, “Thank you doctor. 
You’ve been far more helpful than you might imagine.  If you find anything further,
please contact me.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Holmes.  Good day, gentlemen.”

Holmes and Watson turned to leave, and, as they did so,
Watson’s cane hooked itself onto one of the shrouds covering another body.  The
shroud was pulled off to reveal a corpse that had suffered severe
putrefaction.  The look of pure horror upon Watson’s face caused both Holmes
and Death to smile at each other.

“I’m so sorry, Doctor!” blurted out Watson.