Chapter Nine
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I have ever prided myself on being quick to react in a crisis –a skill honed on both the battlefield and in the surgery. It therefore took me little time to round the corner where the fleeing constable, Holmes, and then Lestrade had all disappeared at high speed, but I was just far enough behind that I could witness all that took place over the next twenty seconds.
Sergeant Wilkins, who we had passed but a moment before, was approaching the far end of the hallway, and drew up short as Lestrade barked at him.
"Wilkins! Grab that man!"
Any sigh of relief I might have breathed as Wilkins, a considerably larger man than the dark-haired fugitive, laid his hands on him, was cut short as the wiry individual twisted in his grasp, shrugging out of the uniform jacket he wore and wresting away to sprint toward the doors again, leaving Wilkins with nothing but the uniform in his hands.
Two more constables stepped in front of the escaping fraud, blocking his path to the main entrance twenty feet ahead, and grabbing for him even as he ducked low. The constable on the right was sent sprawling backward as the impostor rammed him head first in the abdomen, and as the second constable managed to get a grip on his arm, the fugitive spun towards him, straightening as he did so and delivering a knee well below the belt of the poor constable, which dropped him to the floor.
The impostor yanked off his helmet as he sprinted for the door, looking like he was going to make it outside, but the intervention of the two fallen constables had slowed him up just enough that as he threw his shoulder against the heavy wooden door, Holmes caught up with him. My companion likely would have had him in custody too, if it weren't for the fact that just as Holmes's long fingers closed upon his arm, the impostor swung his stolen helmet at him, catching him soundly across the jaw and sending him reeling back a pace as the wanted man slipped out the door.
Lestrade arrived a heartbeat later, passing a now-bloodied again Holmes, and threw his compact frame violently against the door, only to rebound off, groaning as he did so, because the escapee had braced the door from the other side in anticipation.
It was then that I became thoroughly convinced that this was not the first occasion upon which the man impersonating a constable had ever been pursued, and I bolted through the doorway an instant after Holmes and Lestrade had recovered and sprang out onto the sidewalk. All of us swung left after spotting the runaway darting out between carts and hansoms in the road, and each of us in turn, Holmes, Lestrade and myself, dodged a number of startled horses and irritated drivers.
Our pursuit took us between buildings and down an alleyway in rapid succession, and we sprinted one after the other along a more residential road, across a small but well manicured lawn, and hopped a white picket garden gate, as had our quarry. For the space of a heartbeat it looked as though we might prevail when the impostor came across a low brick wall across the garden in front of him, but he never slowed as he neared it; he simply dashed for a low stone bench in the garden, using it as a step to continue his momentum up and over the wall.
Being considerably taller than our prey, Holmes hit the low wall and vaulted over, landing nimbly only a few paces behind the fleeing man. Lestrade gained the top of the wall by route of the bench, and dashed a ways along the top, ordering the man to stop and pulling a revolver as I went over in pursuit of Holmes. We might have had a chance of running the impostor to ground at that moment, had the four-wheeler not come along in the same direction and our fugitive sprung to the back of it.
Knowing that we couldn't keep pace with a trotting horse for very long after our already energetic pursuit, Holmes and I dashed after it with a last renewed burst of speed, and might have gained the back of it as well had our wily runaway not already anticipated our actions and climbed atop the carriage. A moment later he'd surprised the driver from behind, elbowing the poor chap from his seat into the road and whipping up the horse to a pace that we could not match on foot.
I pulled up abruptly, panting alongside a winded Sherlock Holmes, who was doubled over with hands upon knees, casting final frustrated glances at his escaped prize between gasps.
"Watson," he managed at last, as a similarly out-of-breath Lestrade caught up, "see to that poor fellow." He nodded once in the direction of the unlucky cab driver, and I hurried to the man's side to examine him, determining that other than a sprained wrist, the man's pride was the most injured part of him. By that time, Wilkins and three more constables had arrived on the scene, and I left my patient in their charge to be taken back to Scotland Yard for a statement as I rejoined my two fellow chasers.
"He has a lot of cheek, that one, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade was saying with obvious irritation.
"To be sure," Holmes replied, looking a bit distant. He then turned abruptly to me. "I'm beginning to suspect that it was less fortuitous circumstance and more thorough planning that accounted for our friendly driver being available when that horse threw a shoe this morning, Watson."
"What makes you say that, Holmes?" I inquired, still too winded to follow his train of thought.
"Did you not see him?" Holmes asked, gesturing down the road where the four-wheeler had long disappeared from view. "Our false constable was none other than our garrulous driver from earlier."
"Jonathan Teague!" I ejaculated.
Sherlock Holmes shot me a look of pleased astonishment. "You know his name?"
"Yes, and his company, Black Cab, number 2705," I added, recalling having casually noted such at the time I had been waiting for Holmes at the British Museum.
"My dear Watson!" Holmes exclaimed, obviously delighted. "You've outdone yourself!"
"I'll look into it right away," Lestrade interjected as we retraced our steps back to the Yard, having written the information I'd just provided down in a pocket notebook. "If he shows his face again at work or at home, we'll have him, don't you doubt that."
"Meanwhile," Holmes replied, after a glance at his pocket watch, "I fear we shall be quite late for our appointment with Miss Hastings." With that he climbed into the cab we'd bade wait, and he took his leave from Lestrade with an agreement for each to share with the other what he had found out on the morrow.
Despite the fact that Sherlock Holmes, after dabbing the latest smear of blood from his chin, had sunk back against the seat next to me with his eyes closed, I could tell from his close-knit brows that he was deep in concentration. As it happened, I was glad to have a few moments of unoccupied silence during which to recover myself after our vigorous yet unsuccessful pursuit of Jonathan Teague from the depths of Scotland Yard, and I likewise leaned back against the seat in exhaustion.
"Why?" Holmes murmured at last, seemingly more to himself than to me.
"Why what?" I asked, opening my eyes and glancing sideways at my companion.
Holmes opened his eyes and shot me a brief sideways glance. "Why, my dear Watson, did this fellow Teague act with such haste? Why risk infiltrating Scotland Yard during the day, when penetrating the building at night would provide a much higher chance of success? For now he has failed and put the force on full alert."
"You said yourself that you suspected him to be under some manner of time constraint," I replied as I thought out loud. "Perhaps he felt he couldn't wait any later than he did."
Holmes shook his head, still obviously deep in contemplation.
"No," he murmured, "no, that is not the case. This man is much too clever and resourceful to rush into matters that way. True, he has time against him, as all the ships present for the jubilee will leave London once the celebration is over in a few days; to remain behind would make his craft quite conspicuous when the others have gone. But no, his need is not so pressing as that. Another reason caused him to act so boldly. It's almost as if..."
"As if what?" I asked. I admit that I felt a bit apprehensive about what Holmes was getting at.
"We have been followed," Holmes announced suddenly by way of explanation. "This fellow Teague set his sights upon us before this, of that much I am now sure. How else would you explain him showing up just when we needed a cab? I think it questionable whether we have been the hunters or the hunted, Watson, and I much prefer knowing just where I stand in such matters."
Holmes fell into silent contemplation for several more moments, dabbing at the still seeping cut on his chin, a courtesy of Jonathan Teague.
"No," he proclaimed at last, "there is no doubt that we have been the quarry, our hunter put on our scent by Lestrade's visit to us so soon after his investigation of the Matthews estate. Teague has been tracking the two possible places that the flask could have ended up: with Scotland Yard or with us."
"Perhaps Teague had two games in motion at once," I said as I thought over Holmes's remarks thus far. "If he were unsuccessful at infiltrating Scotland Yard, then by keeping track of us, he would know another way of possibly obtaining what he wanted from its lot of evidence."
"Such as?" Holmes asked, beginning to smile.
"Such as kidnapping one of us and requiring the other to fetch the flask from Scotland Yard. It would be particularly easy for you yourself to do."
"My dear Watson!" Holmes cried enthusiastically. "You simply scintillate this afternoon!"
"Thank you, Holmes," I replied, pleased as always when I felt I had been able to add some useful insight into an investigation.
"But why...still why did our shrewd new acquaintance act so rashly?" Holmes asked, more of himself than of me, I had no doubt. "He must have known I had taken up the case and had been to Owlsmoor. Lestrade himself said there had been an odd chap hanging about the vicinity..."
"So, knowing that we were on his scent, however distantly, Teague decided to follow us?" I asked.
"That is one theory perhaps," Holmes replied. "A second theory would be that he was staking out Scotland Yard in the disguise of a cabman this morning –also a brilliant method of escape if he were to obtain the flask, I must say, and chanced upon us leaving with Miss Hastings. Knowing that we were pursuing his trail but that Lestrade apparently so far was not, he decided to keep track of our whereabouts until...
"He knew!" Holmes exclaimed, sitting upright next to me. "He knew somehow that we would be preoccupied long enough for him to make an attempt upon Scotland Yard – that is why he acted when he did! It was luck that we encountered him there at all. Had we lingered any longer in the company of Dr. Maynard, Teague might have very well accomplished his coups de grace and been gone on the change of tide."
The more he talked, the more I experienced a profound sinking feeling, and began to realize that I had a certain confession that I was going to have to make to Sherlock Holmes. It occurred to me then just why Teague had known that we would be preoccupied for a period of time that afternoon –not knowing just who our gregarious cabby had been, I had naively provided him with the very information he needed during our sociable conversation about Miss Hastings, pirates, and his injured hand.
"Holmes," I said tentatively, getting no response from my distracted compatriot. I tried again with more insistence. "I say, Holmes."
He waved me off dismissively. "Not now, Watson. I must think!"
"I'm sure I know how it is that Teague knew just when we would be engaged elsewhere," I continued, feeling rather ill.
"You have a theory?" Holmes asked, finally turning to face me.
I nodded and smiled uneasily.
"Well, if you have one, pray, let me hear it," Holmes said impatiently, training his full attention on me.
"It could possibly be...because...erm...I told him," I said in a very small voice.
"You what?" Holmes asked, looking somewhat perplexed.
"Told him," I affirmed, feeling increasingly sheepish. "We spoke in the cab while I waited for you."
Sherlock Holmes's expression sank, as did his voice. "Oh dear."
Clearly by the look he wore, Holmes no longer felt that I scintillated that afternoon.
"Tell me precisely what you said to him," Holmes demanded, looking both irritated and concerned, and I recounted the conversation as quickly and completely as I could.
Holmes had listened to all I had to say, his expression a grave mixture of disappointment and disquiet, and once I had finished telling the details of my earlier conversation with Jonathan Teague, somewhat sheepishly, he shook his head and tutted softly.
"Watson," he said, clearly disgruntled and casting a disapproving look upon me, "you have nearly undone our investigation single-handedly. It is little wonder that Teague felt the time was right to strike; I too would have taken the opportunity handed to me in such a careless fashion."
I winced at the reproach contained in Holmes's voice and sank a little deeper into the seat.
"The only way in which you might have done more damage," he went on, gesturing in agitation with one hand, "is if you had handed him your card to advertise your name and address."
I felt my face flush warm at that moment, and strongly, if not fleetingly, considered flinging myself out the door of the cab. Holmes knew immediately what my crestfallen expression signified, and once more he shook his head and heaved an exasperated sigh.
"I only meant to offer an injured man my services," I said after a very long moment of tense silence, managing to summon a small amount of indignation. "He tried to show me a tattoo and I noticed a bandage..."
Holmes glanced at me again, sighed, and then visibly shook off his irritation, gazing upon me more kindly.
"My dear fellow, your kind and trusting nature is both one of your greatest assets," he said, much more gently, "and your worst shortcomings, at least in my line of work.
"Still," he added mildly, "it would take little enough effort on Teague's part to have discovered the same information, as resourceful as he appears to be. Is it not common enough knowledge to the public these days where Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his very dearest friend Dr. Watson reside?"
I could tell by the tiniest hint of amusement in the sideways glance he shot me, and the manner in which he spoke that all was forgiven, and finally allowed myself to smile a little.
"Let us move forward then," he said, dismissing my indiscretion. "Is there anything that you might have discovered about our clever friend in addition to what he has discovered about us?"
I thought long and hard about my encounter in the cab with Teague and at last shook my head. "Very little, I'm afraid. He knew of the Oxford Club, and he said he'd encountered pirates before."
"Obviously," Holmes replied, matter-of-factly.
"He said he'd been a merchant marine."
"Most likely a lie, but did he comment on where he'd sailed?"
I searched my memory more thoroughly. "'Anywhere and everywhere,' was his answer," I replied. "He said he'd been engaged in nautical acquisition and redistribution, and that was about the time he started to show me his tattoo; I got the impression he was rather proud of it."
Holmes pressed his fingers together before his lips and looked thoughtful again for a moment before he spoke. "That is the very same term that Mrs. Clayton said Henry Matthews had used to describe his own career, and I'll wager that if we were to ask Dr. Maynard about it, that he would tell us it is a euphemism for plundering and pillaging.
"What did the tattoo look like, Watson?"
"I must admit that my attention was focused more on the bandage Teague wore," I replied, "but if my memory serves, it was some sort of bird."
"Ah, yes," Holmes replied knowingly. "Anywhere and everywhere – I imagine it was a swallow, the traditional motif chosen by sailors who have voyaged across all seven seas."
"Yes, it could have been one now that I think about it, but how did you know?" I asked, amazed that Holmes could have known, without seeing, what I could barely remember having observed.
Holmes bestowed upon me a brief, indulgent smile. "You may recall, dear fellow, that I have contributed to the literature upon the subject of tattoos. It is because of this that I knew how to convincingly replicate one in a temporary fashion," he added, gesturing with his decorated right arm, "using Kandahar ink."
Holmes picked up the books we had left in the cab during our recent pursuit of Jonathan Teague, and handed me one of them.
"Let us see if I am correct," he said. "I believe you can turn to any chapter in that book concerning this pirate, Sparrow, now that we know our deceased acquaintance, Matthews, is the heir of the Pirate Lord Hector Barbossa; my instincts tell me that particular rivalry may have persisted all these many decades, and that Teague is one of Sparrow's successors."
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A/N: Yep, I know Jack's tattoo is a sparrow. Holmes will too by next chapter. :)
