The Case of the Three Brothers
Chapter Ten: Scotland Yard's Newest Wonder
"So, who's gone missing this time? Your niece? Your grandfather? Your great-aunt Gertie in her best straw hat?"
I wished I could have shared Lestrade's light-hearted view of the situation. It had taken me the best part of three-quarters of an hour to make my way from Baker Street to Whitehall in conditions that could best be described as congested, only to have to abandon my cab when we drew to a standstill in the great heaving throng of Regent Street and make the rest of my journey on foot. I was tired, vexed and deeply concerned that I had had still no word from my missing companion.
"Actually, Inspector, Holmes seems to have disappeared."
"Has he, Doctor? Well, I shouldn't worry too much about it. I expect he'll turn up sooner or later."
Sooner, I hoped, rather than later, and of his own free will, not carried feet-first into the local mortuary. These concerns I did not confide to Lestrade, however, for his mood that evening was less than amiable and I had the distinct impression that he was still brooding over Holmes having misled him about the identity of the Holborn accident victim. I did not begrudge him his nursing of his wounded pride, although the timing could not have been worse.
We were sat in what was currently passing as his office, a cramped affair dominated by a desk so large that it seemed to me he would have to crawl through the gap in the middle to get to the door, and stacked from floor to ceiling with paperwork in so great a volume that they had overtaken the room and spilled out into the corridor beyond. Our cases of late had not necessitated our visiting Scotland Yard since the bombing of five years before, so I was pleasantly surprised to find that the large hole created by the explosion in the wall of their headquarters had been patched and was supported by wooden props, much to the dismay of the local publican, who had been making a roaring trade in showing visitors the damage for a threepence a head.
The problem of space remained, however, and various members of the Criminal Investigation Division, who had been obliged to decamp to nearby offices, had taken up permanent residence in what were initially intended to be temporary quarters. Lestrade had found himself shuffled away with several others to an upstairs room of the Public Carriage Office, and I gathered that relations were not easy. So many souls in so confined an area were causing tensions to run high, a fact I discovered when my appearance in the entrance lobby that evening had nearly caused a coming to blows over who was to take my inquiry.
After hot words and a few flushed faces, I was taken to the upper levels. I had to squeeze past the towering heights of stacked paper mountains, each looking precarious enough to fall and engulf an unwary passer-by if he dared so much as to sneeze and disturb them. My gamble that Lestrade's unhappy domestic situation would have made him in no great hurry to return home had paid off, and I had found him at work, or at least going through the motions, with a sandwich in one hand, a cup of tea in the other and the evening newspaper spread out on the desk before him.
I cannot say he was altogether pleased to see me, for my reception was cool and his manner wary, as if he already suspected the reason for my visit. After skipping over the customary courtesies and several oblique references to our encounter earlier that day, I decided to lay my cards on the table and ask him directly what he knew about the death of Morris Carter.
He pursed his lips. "I'm not so sure about that, Doctor. What's your interest in old Mournful, anyhow?"
"A personal one," I said, deciding that it was wiser not to divulge what I had learnt in the past few hours. Trying to explain the convoluted nature of the business would have taken more time than I could spare and would not, I imagined, be beneficial to my cause.
Lestrade was not so easily deceived. "It wouldn't have anything to do with Mr Holmes's missing brother, would it?"
"I can honestly say that I don't know, Inspector."
"He hasn't sent you?"
"No, I haven't seen him for hours."
A look of dissatisfaction settled on the Inspector's features. "You wouldn't be thinking of handling a case on your own, would you, Dr Watson? You could get yourself in a lot of trouble."
"I appreciate that, Inspector. However, I only wish to know what happened to Mr Carter."
"Do you?" He still looked unhappy about the prospect of telling me what he knew. "Well, I suppose it couldn't hurt. The man's dead, after all. What you need is our Dawkins."
"What's that?"
"Constable Dawkins, current genius-in-residence," said he with a wry smile. "The Chief Constable said that if he had ten men like Dawkins he could clean this city up in a year. Until he finds them, however, he's stuck with us, doing the best we can. No one ever took up policing for the thanks you get."
He had risen to his feet, and, as I had suspected, was fairly trapped between the confines of desk and wall. He vacillated for a moment, decided against the indignity of having to crawl out on his hands and knees to the door, and instead hollered out at the top of his voice. The bleary-eyed constable who appeared was duly sent away in search of the inscrutable Dawkins. Lestrade re-seated himself and stifled a sigh.
"Any news concerning Mycroft Holmes?" I asked while we waited.
He grunted. "I've started making inquiries. There's a lot of men match his description, mind. Something will turn up."
"Mr Micawber," I said, smiling.
Lestrade gave me a blank look. "Someone I should know about?"
"No, it's of no importance."
"Maybe you should let me be the judge of that." He folded his arms and regarded me gravely. "I do have other cases on hand, you know, Dr Watson. I was in the middle of a forgery case with no end of suspects when you and Mr Holmes had me trek over to Islington this afternoon. It's all very well the pair of you gadding about dabbling in crime as it were, but it us professionals who have to come along and clear up your mess. I had to re-file my report this afternoon about that dead man, and the Chief Constable was none too happy about it, I can tell you. He made noises about us having a case against Mr Holmes for wasting police time."
"But in the circumstances, Inspector—"
"That's what I told him. He said he'd let it pass this time, but he's not a man who's got much patience."
"Even though Holmes has been of help to the police in the past?"
Lestrade sat up abruptly and leaned his elbows on the desk. "In an unofficial capacity," he said with emphasis.
From this remark, I gathered that, as in print, the lion's share of the credit was going to the detectives who made the arrests, not the individual who solved the cases. I had remonstrated with Holmes in the past about this lack of recognition for the pains he took on behalf of the official force and, whilst it appeared not to greatly trouble him, I had my doubts as to whether this stance he had adopted was to his advantage. Given the choice between the professional pride of certain police inspectors and a spell in prison, I knew which I would prefer.
Further discussion of the subject was prevented by a tap on the door and the appearance of the Yard's newest wonder. Dawkins was a slight young man, who wore full whiskers and a moustache in the mistaken belief that it would make him appear older than his tender years. So sparse was it, however, that it seemed more untidy stubble than luxuriant growth. Whatever it was about him that had won the Chief Constable's approval, it was not likely to be his considered opinions on the proper wearing of facial hair.
"Ah, Dawkins." Lestrade addressed the newcomer in almost predatory fashion. Had he been a dog, his hackles would have been up and pointing in Dawkin's direction. "Well, come in, boy," he said, gruffly. "Don't stand there like a tradesman waiting for his Christmas box."
Dawkins duly entered, sidestepping several boxes and managing to manoeuvre his frame into a position where he was able to close the door.
"This gentleman here is Dr Watson," said Lestrade, nodding in my direction.
"Currently residing at 221B Baker Street?" said the young man.
"Well, yes," I said, somewhat taken aback.
"Former army surgeon, attached first to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, then to the Berkshires, saw action at—"
"Yes, thank you, Dawkins," said Lestrade, interrupting his flow. "It's not Dr Watson we're interested in." He cast a weary glance in my direction. "That's his talent, see. You've got a limitless capacity for storing all sorts of nonsense in that head of yours, haven't you, Dawkins? Fascinated by crimes and criminals, he is. Ask him who did what when how why and to whom, and he could tell you like a shot."
"Incredible," said I. "How is it you know about me?"
"I make it my business to know about everyone who comes into contact with the Met in any capacity, sir," said he deferentially. "I've been following Mr Holmes's career in particular with interest, from his first involvement with the force in the January of 1878 during the investigation of a series of suspicious deaths at a music hall in Hoxton—"
"That's quite enough," Lestrade said. "If you could turn that memory of yours to something rather closer in time, perhaps you wouldn't mind enlightening us about the details of the investigation into the death of Morris Carter."
Dawkins paused and glanced dubiously at me. "In front of a civilian, Inspector?"
"He isn't a civilian, constable. He's a doctor. They're like priests. Whatever you tell them in confidence stays that way. Isn't that right?"
He looked to me for confirmation. The analogy was not quite exact, and I was sure it did not apply to police business, but I nodded anyway.
"Well, lad, get on with it. What are you waiting for?"
Dawkins cleared his throat. "Morris Carter, known as Mournful, called himself a private detective. Born 1833 in Bromley, second son of an ironmonger and a seamstress. First came to the attention of the Bromley force in 1845 for petty larceny. Case not proven. Then in 1846, he was brought up before the bench on a charge of stealing washing—"
"Skip forward a bit, constable," said Lestrade wearily. "We'll be here all night otherwise. Tell us how he died."
"That was a month ago."
"Yes, yes, we know that."
"Wouldn't it be easier to look up the file, Inspector?"
Lestrade gestured to the heaped papers around his office. "If you think you can find it in amongst this lot, Dawkins, be my guest. If not, tell us what you can remember. Now, what about Carter?"
"Killed by the 11.38 Hastings train on the Chislehurst level crossing. The night was clear, the weather fair. The body smelled strongly of alcohol and the coroner concluded that Mr Carter had wandered onto the rails in a state of drunkenness. No suspicious circumstances were reported. Death was recorded as misadventure whilst under the influence."
"What did he have on his person?" I asked.
"Four shillings, a comb with missing teeth, a battered copy of Memoirs of a Harem Girl and a half bag of mint humbugs, 12 in total I think it was."
"No ticket?"
"There was no mention of it in the official report."
I caught Lestrade watching me closely. "I wouldn't read too much into that, if I were you, Doctor," said he. "Have you ever seen anyone hit by a train? Messy business. Easy enough to overlook a train ticket under those circumstances."
"Was any explanation offered as to what Mr Carter was doing there so late at night?"
"The coroner was of the opinion that he had alighted at the wrong stop. Chislehurst is just down the road from where he was brought up as a nipper in Bromley, so perhaps he was feeling homesick."
"He had no case which would have taken him there?"
"R Division looked into that, sir," Dawkins answered, "but they found nothing current."
"And what of anyone in the local area? Were they questioned about—"
"Thank you, Dawkins, that'll be all," Lestrade interjected.
"But, sir—"
"I said, that'll be all. Off you go."
The obliging youth gave a slight inclination of his head. "Glad to be of assistance, Inspector. A pleasure to have met you, Dr Watson. If you see Mr Holmes, sir, would you tell him that I'm a great admirer of his methods? I'd consider it an honour to be able to work with him one day."
"Certainly, I shall tell him."
"Haven't you got nothing better to do than stand here bending this gentleman's ear, constable?" Lestrade cut in irritably.
"I've got half an hour break, Inspector."
"Well, you're not going to rise very high in the Met if you fill your time yapping with your friends. Go on, hook it."
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
"Oh, and, Dawkins, since you're at a loss for things to do, you can make me another cup of tea. Strong and hot, and bring up some of that cake that old girl left with the sergeant on account of our finding her missing dog."
Dawkins went on his way, leaving Lestrade grinning at the constable's chagrin like a cat who managed to commandeer all the cream for himself.
"You have to keep these youngsters in their place," he confided. "It's all very well being cocky in here, but all it'll get you out on the streets is a punch in the breadbasket for your trouble. Talking of which…" He sat back in his chair and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "What's your real interest in this Carter fellow, Doctor?"
"I don't understand what you mean."
"Those questions, they were quite specific, the sort I'd expect Mr Holmes to ask."
"As I said, Inspector, it's a personal inquiry. On behalf of a friend."
Lestrade's keen eyes held a hard gleam of suspicion. "And you're sure that friend isn't Mr Holmes?"
Despite the coolness of the evening, I was beginning to feel uncomfortably hot under the collar. "No, it isn't."
"Frankly, I'd be a lot happier knowing it was. Mark my word, this was an accident, nothing more. Stay well clear of it. Folk who go looking for trouble often find it, that's been my experience, especially…" He paused and his features softened into a smile. "When they're not so sure of the ropes."
"I know how to handle myself. Not that I expect to have to so," I added hastily.
"You'll be going home now, will you?"
"Directly. In the meantime, you'll let us know if you hear anything about Mycroft Holmes?"
"You may count on it. Well, good evening, Dr Watson. Mind how you go."
I took my leave, successfully negotiated the paper-strewn obstacle course and headed out into the night, hailing the first cab I saw and directing him to take me to Waterloo in time to catch the 9.10 to Hastings via Chislehurst. I had no qualms about breaking my word to Lestrade; I would make peace with my conscience when I knew Holmes was safe and this diabolical mystery was at an end.
Continued in Chapter Eleven!