The Problem of Threadneedle Street (The Assassination of Sherlock Holmes Book 2) (8 page)

“You mean that he saw none.”

“I assure you, Mr. Holmes, that I have examined the spot myself, and there were none.”

Holmes chuckled appreciatively. “My good Lestrade, I have investigated many crimes, but I have never yet seen one which was committed by a flying creature. As long as the criminal remains upon two legs there must be some indentation, some abrasion, some trifling displacement which can be detected by the scientific searcher. I assure you that this meadow must contain some trace which could aid you.”

Lestrade shook his head. “I know your methods, Mr. Holmes. You’ve used them to show me a thing or two in my day. There is something mighty peculiar about this Runnymede case.”

Holmes sighed. “I suppose that we must follow-up on all crimes of a particular outré nature, Watson, no matter how unlikely they are to be connected to the cases of the Museum and the Bank.”

“You will go down?” I asked.

“No, my dear fellow, you will go down. This may be some trivial problem, and I cannot excuse myself from the center of London for the sake of it. Your natural acumen should be more than a match for this snowy afternoon. Leave no stone unturned.”

§

The pale sunlight of that late fall day was fading by the time Lestrade and I arrived at that site where the greatest of the English Charters had come into being, and where later Henry romanced Anne under a Yew Tree. After the previous night’s storm, the weather had turned somewhat for the calmer, though the temperature remained low with an exhilarating nip in the air, which set an edge to a man's energy. The dark blue sky was flecked with little fleecy white clouds drifting across from west to east. Lestrade led me to the play where the man’s body still sprawled, a pair of constables stationed nearby to ward off any accidental intruders upon the scene.

I at once went very carefully round it to observe if there were any traces in the snow which might help me, as they had once helped Holmes prevent a great scandal. Fortunately the cold day had served to harden the crust of frost. Unlike the subtle impressions left on trampled grass or wet dirt, which often required careful examination with a lens, my reading of what had transpired on that sloping hillside was a simple one. There was a double line of tracks of a booted man, which could only belong to the groundskeeper Mr. Black. He had advanced towards the body at a run, but his return was more slow and careful. I noted that three additional prints approached the area, presumably belonging to the local constable, the medical examiner, and Lestrade himself. The local man had outdone himself, for he had carefully laid down a long piece of matting and stood upon it while looking at the body such that these new prints would not contaminate the scene.

Turning my attention to that of the body, this proved to belong to a middle-aged man, about forty by his looks. He was laying full length on top of the snow. The back of his head appeared to have been caved in by a ferocious blow. His shirt had a well-cut look to it, though the cuffs were heavily stained with some dark substance. Pushing them up, I noted that his hands were heavily calloused and his fleshy left forearm was dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture marks. There was no sign of any bullet holes. Utilizing my training in such matters, I independently verified from the extreme rigor of his muscles that the examiner’s estimate of time of death was accurate. This confirmed that the man’s demise must have transpired after the snow had begun falling.

A minute examination of the scene served only to make the case more complex. Immediately about him, the snow was somewhat tumbled, but everywhere else it was still smooth. I cast my eye about for any horse or vehicle which could have brought the body to that spot, but nothing of the kind was to be seen. I could confirm that Lestrade was not mistaken. There were no other prints in the snow. Either the man had died of natural causes, taken his own life, or Mr. Black himself had killed the man for reasons unknown. But the blow upon the back of his head ruled out the former two possibilities. And furthermore, how had the man come to the site of his death? There were no signs of wheels, or a horse, or of any other man, save the tracks that I had already mentioned. How did the stranger find himself there, more than a quarter of a mile from a road or a house or even a tall tree, without breaking the snow or leaving a track?

All these details I jotted down, and felt that Holmes himself could not have been more adroit in collecting his facts. I then put myself in Holmes’ shoes. If he was on the scene, he would have considered how the murderer placed the body in this precise spot. I used my imagination, which Holmes’ had often accused me of possessing to an overactive degree, to think about how I would undertake it. And from what I saw there were only two possibilities.

“Have you found anything of note, Doctor?” asked Lestrade when the silence had grown overlong.

“Beside the fact that he was a user of morphia and that he worked with tarred ropes, like a sailor, no there is nothing.”

“Yes, we noted those signs on his hands and arms as well. Anything else?”

I am, in my advancing years, finally developing a subtle wisdom. I did not live for years with Sherlock Holmes for nothing and had learned to keep my own counsel. But I deigned to dole out a pair of clues to Lestrade.

“I say, Inspector, what direction did the wind blow last night?”

“The wind?” he spluttered. “What does the wind have to do with anything?”

I shrugged. “I think the wind’s direction may be as critical as the light of the moon.”

“But it was a cloudy night with the snowstorm,” protested Lestrade. “The moon would have been blotted out.”

“That is what is so critical,” I replied cryptically. Already in my mind the mystery was beginning to define itself, as figures grow clearer with the lifting of a fog. But what horrible purpose, what deep design, lay behind these events, and how did they relate to the plot that revolved around my friend?

Determining that there was nothing more to see at the location of the incident, Lestrade and I took the dog-cart back to Egham Station and there caught a train for the twenty miles back to Waterloo.

§

When I finished listing the details to Holmes, I then proceeded to expound upon my theory. “And so, as I see it Holmes, there are very few methods by which the body of this unfortunate man could have ended up on that snow-covered hill.”

“Pray tell,” said he, with hooded eyelids.

“One possibility is that his body was launched there, by something like a catapult or trebuchet.”

Holmes broke into a whimsical laugh. “Oh, Watson, I fear you are reading far too many adventure tales. This is not the Middle Ages! Do you think one of Runnymede’s neighbors is planning a siege? I ask you now, is such a theory tenable?”

It took all my self-control not to smile. “I said, Holmes, that this was only the first possibility. I did not say it was the most likely.”

“And what is?”

“The key to this mystery is that the death of this man and the theft of the goldbeater’s skin are linked. For I recalled that goldbeater’s skin has another use beyond that of making gold leaf. It is also used to line and make airtight the reservoir bag used for the inhalation of the chloroform anesthetic. If it could contain a small quantity of gas, surely it could also be employed to create something much larger, something large enough to lift a group of men into the sky?”

“An aeronautical balloon!” exclaimed Lestrade.

“Southwest of Runnymede, from which direction the wind is most often blowing, there is, the town of Farnborough. I believe that is the location of the Army School of Ballooning, having moved there from the enclosed Aldershot site, after first being established three decades ago at Woolwich Arsenal. I would inquire there, Inspector, whether they are missing an engineer,” I concluded.

“Brilliant, Watson!” said Holmes. “A veritable triumph! You have demonstrated that you have finally mastered my methods. It proves that it can be done. The only problem is that you are of my same age. I should have perhaps trained some younger person to do the same.” He shook his head. “Now we must hope that my magnum opus,
The Whole Art of Detection
, will accomplish the same.”

“Then you agree?” I said, somewhat surprised to find that for once in our long association Holmes actually concurred with my deductions.

“Oh, yes. Clearly this man was employed at the Ballooning School as you suggested. His salary however, could hardly match the cost of his opioid habit, so he was forced to supplement it by working for our Mr. Wild, or Mortlock, or whatever we shall call him. The villains were practicing a moon-less run last night, when the man must have heard too much, or became suspicious of their plans. He was therefore jettisoned over the fields of Runnymede.”

“But, Mr. Holmes,” cried Lestrade, “would not the Army know if one of their balloons suddenly went missing?”

“Not if they made their own,” I pointed out.

Holmes looked thoughtful and remained in silence for some moments. “Well, Watson, there is this to be said for your theory. It does tie together many of our loose threads. It explains why the goldbeater’s skin was stolen and what was hidden in that Lambeth Gardens shed. It even explains the theft of Mr. Mac’s hydrogen gas. But it still does not tell us who is behind this masterful plot. I don’t suppose, Lestrade, you have any more peculiar crimes that you have yet to share with us?”

“Well, now that you mention it, Mr. Holmes, there is one.”

“Oh, yes?” said Holmes, with some interest.

“Something notable vanished from the Scotland Yard Museum a few nights ago.”

I laughed. “You have a museum at Scotland Yard?”

“Indeed, Doctor. It is where we keep all of those objects that we confiscate from the scenes of notable crimes. And the particular object that was stolen could be considered the pièce de résistance of our little collection. It is the famous air-gun of Von Herder.”

Holmes sprang upright, apparently thunderstruck by Lestrade’s news. “Moran!” he exclaimed.

These words sent a chill to my heart. “Surely he is dead by now?”

“No, Watson, it would take a mighty force to bring down that old
shikari.
”

“But was he not given the death sentence for his murder of the Honorable Ronald Adair?”

Holmes shook his head. “There was a commutation of his sentence due to some political maneuvering on behalf of his father, the former Minister to Persia. I am afraid, Watson, that Moran is very much alive.”

“But he must be in prison?”

“So I was led to believe, however, I think we must now verify whether or not this actually remains true.” He refused to speak another word, but sat with his chin upon his breast, and his eyes closed, sunk in the deepest thought. I had the sensation of an unseen force, a fine net drawn round us with boundless skill and care, holding us so imperceptibly that it was only at the ultimate moment that one was indeed fully ensnared in its tangles. Perhaps Holmes felt it too, for even after Lestrade finally left us, he sat motionless for so long that it seemed to me that he had forgotten my very presence.

“Watson,” said he, as he finally stood. “I am about to make several telephone calls from Mycroft’s splendid system. You may take this time to avail yourself of a brief rest, for I fear tonight may be a long one.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “In an hour we will head out. When we do so, kindly put your revolver in your pocket. We have an excursion to make this evening, and I think it best that you go armed. You would also oblige me by bringing with you your very excellent field glass.”

“What about you, Holmes? This may not be the time for loaded hunting crops or canes.”

“Indeed, Watson, you will be happy to learn that I had more than just my violin sent up from the Downs. I now have my old favorite Webley with me, and I fear that it may see some use tonight.”

The appointed hour flew by, and soon I found myself bundled with Holmes in the back of a brougham, on our way to some critical dénouement. The thrill of adventure was again in my heart as we dashed away through the endless succession of somber and deserted streets, which widened gradually, until we were flying across a broad balustrade bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another broad wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only by the laughs of drunken revelers. A star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of the clouds. I suddenly recalled that tonight was Bonfire Night, the annual commemoration of the end of the Gunpowder Plot and the arrest of Guy Fawkes. Soon, the sky would be filled with the lights of burning effigies and fireworks.

Holmes was monitoring our progress out of the window, his extraordinary knowledge of the by-ways of London allowing him to determine our location when all was twisted and confused to me. “We could, Watson, attempt to determine where exactly they plan to launch their airship,” he explained. “Given the most common direction of the wind, it is probable that they would still choose to utilize a base to the southwest of the City, such as Spring Gardens or in the fields near Bedlam. But there are far too many spaces to search, and too little time, I fear. Instead, we must spring their trap. We shall be waiting for them at the locale upon which they plan to descend.”

“And where is that?”

“Is that not obvious? We are here.”