The Sherlockian (29 page)

“He strangled himself with his own shoelace?” said Sarah, swinging her feet off the edge of the bed as she spoke. “Is that even possible?”

“ The medical community is split about that one,” said Harold. “Some think it’s possible, some think it isn’t.”

“How in the world do you know that?”

“I’ve read a lot of mysteries. This isn’t exactly the first time the issue of self-strangulation has come up. Plus, he might have used a tool for help. Do you remember at the crime scene? There was an antique pen on the floor by the body. The same model that Conan Doyle used. What if Cale used the pen to tighten the shoelace around his neck? Then it fell away when he collapsed. The pen would make it easier for him to tighten it initially, before he lost muscle strength.”

“But it might not even be possible?”

“You’re being kind of glass-half-empty about this, don’t you think? It might
be
possible. Neither of us is a doctor. But even if we were, we couldn’t rule out the possibility, not for certain.”

Sarah smiled. She was enjoying this.

“This happened in a Holmes story, you know. Not the strangulation via shoelace. But in ‘The Problem of Thor Bridge,’ a woman killed herself in such a fashion that it looked like murder. She did it in order to frame her husband’s mistress.”

“Doesn’t the word ‘elementary’ appear in a different story? You told me that.”

“Yes. It does. When Cale wrote ‘elementary’ on the wall, he wasn’t pointing us toward ‘Thor Bridge.’ He was pointing us toward
A Study in Scarlet,
like I always thought, which is where the killer leaves a message on the wall in his own blood. And whose blood was on the wall?”

“Alex’s!” said Sarah buoyantly.

“And then, secondly, the word ‘elementary’ is from the story ‘The Crooked Man.’ To be honest, I have no idea what that story has to do with Cale’s death. It’s another story where what looks to be murder actually isn’t. One Colonel Barclay appears to have been murdered by his wife. But Holmes deduces that the man actually died of shock, and the wife was silent about it because she was with her lover at the time. It’s sort of a weaker version of ‘Thor Bridge,’ really. I don’t know what Cale meant by that message. Yet.”

“So why’d he do it?” Sarah said. “Why did Alex lie about finding the diary and then kill himself while making it look like the diary had been stolen?”

Harold paused. He realized that he’d been pacing back and forth across the room as he’d been speaking. He planted his feet into the carpet as he continued.

“I have no idea,” he said. “That will be the next step in our investigation.”
The next step. Our investigation.
Harold liked the promise implicit in those phrases. “But there are a few possibilities that come to mind. What if he did it to frame somebody? Like in ‘Thor Bridge.’ ”

“Who did he frame?” Sarah swung her feet off the edge of the bed as she spoke.

“Sebastian Conan Doyle,” said Harold. “Ten to one all the cops think he did it.”

“Actually, I’ll take ten to one that all the cops think
you
did it, but I see your point.”

“Cale hated Sebastian. They’d been fighting for years, with increasing bitterness. They’d been racing each other to find the diary. Maybe, for his final trick, Cale decided to screw Sebastian over once and for all. By announcing he’d found the diary, he’d throw Sebastian off the scent. Then, by killing himself and making it look as if someone else stole it, he’d ensure that Sebastian would go off and spend years trying to find the murderer. He’d spend all this time and energy doing things like . . . well, like hiring me, but he’d be looking in the wrong place. Because no one stole the diary from Cale. Plus, all the cops would declare Sebastian their number-one suspect. Even if they never arrested him, because he didn’t actually kill anyone, he’d be tarred with suspicion for the rest of his life. Cale dies a martyred hero, and Sebastian lives a villain.”

Sarah raised her eyes to the ceiling, pondering everything Harold had just said. It was a lot to take in, but she seemed to be reasoning through it in her head, searching for flaws in his logic. Based on her grin, and the constant swinging of her legs off the edge of the bed, it didn’t look as if she’d found any.

“That was some productive thinking you did back there!” she said at last.

“I know!” said Harold. He was awfully proud of himself.

“I have two problems with all of that, though,” said Sarah. “Problem number one: Why now? Why, after all these years, would Alex Cale abandon his lifelong quest for the diary in order to kill himself and frame Sebastian?”

“I agree,” said Harold. “We know what he did, but we’re not sure why he did it. We’ll need to figure that out.”

“Problem number two—and this one is more serious.” Sarah took a deep breath. “If Alex Cale lied about finding the diary, and killed himself, and ransacked his own hotel room,” she continued, “then who the hell is chasing us?”

To that, Harold had no response.

C
HAPTER 29

Arthur Returns to Scotland Yard

“What is the meaning of it, Watson? . . . What object is served by this

circle of misery and violence and fear? It must tend to some end, or

else our universe is ruled by chance, which is unthinkable.”

—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,

“The Adventure of the Cardboard Box”

November 13, 1900

The New Scotland Yard hummed along pleasantly in the morning, like a gigantic scientific experiment. Identically uniformed constables streamed in and out of the front gate and up into the five-story as if they were tiny bubbles of carbon dioxide in a great bunsen burner. Arthur entered past the wrought-iron fence just at the foot of Big Ben. The clock above his head announced a quarter to eleven.

He found his way without much difficulty to the office of Inspector Miller. The door was already open, and Arthur walked in without a knock. The inspector looked up from his papers, and Arthur again noticed how youthful he appeared behind his thick beard.

“Dr. Doyle!” he exclaimed, setting a few papers aside on his cluttered desk. “I wasn’t expecting a visit from you today.”

“That’s because I hadn’t the time to telegraph my intention to visit,” said Arthur defiantly.

Inspector Miller paused. He had the air of a man who’d been caught doing something very naughty.

“Right so, then,” said the inspector. “It is a pleasure to see you nonetheless.” He gestured toward the open chair before his desk. Arthur sat, taking the same position he had when he was last here. Had that been only two weeks past? What speed at which a man’s life might be irrevocably altered!

“How goes your . . . er . . . your investigation?” said Inspector Miller, feigning curiosity.

“I have found the criminal who attempted to murder me by way of a letter bomb,” said Arthur.

Inspector Miller gave a look of surprise. “You have?”

“Yes. I have—”

“Pardon me,” came a voice from the doorway. “Do you have a minute, sir?”

Arthur turned in his chair to see a teenage constable at the door. His hat fit him awkwardly, and his messy hair popped loose beneath the brim. The constable paid Arthur no mind.

“I am conducting an interview at the moment,” replied the inspector. “I’ll be sure to attend to you when it has concluded.”

“Yes, well then, right. Very good. Except, you see, it was the chief inspector who sent me down. He said to see if you were busy, and, if not, to send you out on a fresh one. It’s just come in.”

“As I am quite busy, I’ll see to it when I’ve finished my interview. Thank you, Constable.” Inspector Miller turned back to Arthur and gave him a look of understanding weariness.
These new recruits,
said the inspector’s face.
Look what I am forced to put up with!

Yet the young man hung idly in the doorway. There seemed to be some sentiment caught in his throat which he found himself unable to express.

“May I continue?” asked Arthur of Inspector Miller, with more than a trace of sarcasm.

“Please,” said the inspector.

“I’ve caught you a murderer. Or an attempted one, at least. And now I am prepared to reveal her identity.”

“Her?” said the inspector.

“Yes. Her. It was a woman who built my letter bomb. She is quite insane, though evidently quite intelligent as well.”

Inspector Miller regarded Arthur blankly. “This is Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle,” he said to the constable, by way of an explanation.

“Oh!” said the constable. “I see!” He seemed even more embarrassed to have intruded upon this meeting, and yet he still did not turn to leave.

“. . . So, if you’ve no objection,” said Inspector Miller, “we wouldn’t mind getting back to our business. Dr. Doyle and I have much to discuss, you understand.”

“Of course! Yes, of course, sir!” The young constable turned to Arthur. “So very pleased to meet you, sir. I’m a great admirer . . . Well, we all are, aren’t we? I don’t think I’d be on the force if it wasn’t for those stories, you know. Read them when I was but a simple boy from the North Country, and now look at me!”

Arthur looked at him but felt it would be impolite to share his opinion of how far the lad had come.

“It’s just that,” the boy continued, now addressing Inspector Miller, “I rather got the sense that the chief inspector wanted you to get down there right away.”

“Constable!” said Inspector Miller. “I am in the middle of an interview. With Dr. Doyle. I am sure that within the hour I will have the time to—”

“The assistant commissioner CID is already on his way to the scene, sir.” After this abrupt outburst, the constable flinched, as if he’d just taken his first shot with a musket and was afraid to see where it had landed.

Arthur could not believe the dysfunction of the Yard. Wasn’t this ramshackle conglomeration of incompetents supposed to be a military division? He would love to have seen Lord Kitchener at the helm of this motley lot.

“ Damn it!” said Inspector Miller. “Mr. Henry has already left? You stupid fool, why didn’t you say so straightaway? I’ve lost valuable minutes thanks to your mealy-mouthed sputterings!” The inspector shot up from his desk and yanked hold of a coat and hat that had been hung on a set of corner hooks.

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” said Arthur. “Inspector, I’m sure you have duties to attend to, but this is unbecoming!”

“Dreadfully sorry, Dr. Doyle, it pains me to have to run out in this manner. But you don’t know Edward Henry. He’s new to the Yard, just come back from India. Straightaway the commissioner has promoted him to the CID, as assistant no less. Some sort of trial run to see how Henry takes to London. I’ll tell you how London takes to him, I will. The man’s been putting darkies in darbies for ten years, and now he thinks he knows how to handle the British criminal classes. A lot for him to learn, a bloody lot. He wants to reorganize the whole unit, shift the priorities, install a bunch of gadgets in the office to replace honest investigation. Rules and regulations, that’s what he’s been on about. Waste of bloody time. Do you know what a detective’s best tool is, Dr. Doyle?” The inspector tapped at his shiny, knee-high boots. “Boots on the ground, that’s what solves a case.”

Arthur stood and followed the two of them out into the main corridors of Scotland Yard.

“There is a young girl out there with a mind for bomb making,” he said. “I strongly suggest that you arrest her forthwith.”

As he walked, Inspector Miller gestured toward the constable. “Certainly. I can have Constable Billings here pick up anyone you like,” he said.

“You’ll find all the evidence you need in her flat. March in there and you’ll catch her red-handed.”

“Excellent,” said the inspector as he took the building’s central staircase in long strides, his boots clopping down two steps at a time. “We’d be happy to pick up anyone you say on your word alone. Whom would you like Constable Billings to arrest?”

Arthur felt suddenly powerful. He knew that the Yard would never care about his ideas or his abilities as a sleuth. And yet he could see how they were nevertheless captive to his name. This entire structure bent at the first gust of the winds of reputation.

“Her name is Emily Davison,” said Arthur. “Clerkenwell.” He provided the young constable with her address.

“Right on it, sir,” said the constable with a pleased deference.

“Now,” said Inspector Miller, “to where am I headed?”

Billings produced a folded sheet of paper, which Arthur only then noticed had been in the boy’s hand for the duration of their conversation. The constable handed the paper to Inspector Miller, who read its contents as he marched double time to the doors of Scotland Yard.

But then, with his outstretched hand mere inches from the front door, Inspector Miller halted. A perverse look spread across his face.

“Dr. Doyle,” said the inspector slowly, his eyes stuck on the paper, “would you mind coming with us to the scene of this fresh crime? I think we may be in need of some assistance, of a sort you may be particularly suited to provide.”

Arthur was quite confused by the man’s request, but he quickly assented with a nod.

“Of course,” he said. “But might I ask why you think I will be able to help?”

“Because,” said Inspector Miller as he looked up into Arthur’s face, “I’ve been assigned to investigate the apparent murder of one Emily Davison. Late of Clerkenwell.”

Of all the thoughts and sensations which flooded into Arthur’s mind at that moment, the one that most consumed him was an awareness of his odd positioning in the lobby of Scotland Yard. A hundred detectives gushed past him on their way out, bumping shoulder to shoulder, while another hundred pushed past him on their way in. Two hundred detectives on two hundred cases, and here was Arthur frozen between them, one middle-aged author fallen into a mystery just deep enough to drown in.

C
HAPTER 30

British Birds, Catullus, and the Holy War

“It has long been an axiom of mine that the little

things are infinitely the most important.”

—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,

“A Case of Identity”