"Oh, good Lord!"
I gasped in horror and looked up at Sherlock Holmes. His ashen face had gone even paler, and he would not meet my gaze, his fingers nervously tracing the pattern on my coverlet.
"We are too late, Watson, for those two poor girls at least," he said softly, tracing the soft loops of the blanket's design distractedly.
I said nothing – what was there to say? I swallowed round the lump in my throat with difficulty and tried to formulate something.
"Holmes, you may be able to glean a knowledge of the truth from the unfortunate girls' deaths, at least," I whispered, "and you might be able to yet save your client's fiancée from the same fate that befell those poor women."
"Why, Watson? Why were they killed, now, after such an amount of time?" he asked suddenly, staring distractedly at my coverlet. "Why now? What could have been the motive?"
"Perhaps we were looking too hard for a motive and the obvious one was the correct one," I said, the vulgar thought turning me sick.
"No, no, no, Watson. All my instincts are against that theory. There is more to this than just a vile intrigue. Why the whole train deception if all the abductor wanted was simply that vulgar purpose? No, Watson, there is more to this affair than that."
Holmes flung himself out of the chair and began restlessly pacing up and down my small bedroom, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes riveted on the carpet. I leaned back wearily again the pillow, my head pounding with this new development. It was nearly half-past seven now; Gregson should be arriving shortly.
We remained in those positions until Mrs. Hudson again rapped on the door, asking us if we would like some supper. I only just then realized I had not eaten since breakfast.
"Just lay something out for Watson, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes said distractedly, "we shall be down in a minute."
"Very good, sir."
Holmes had snapped out of that studious reverie and now looked at me.
"Holmes, you cannot theorize without data," I reminded him of his own maxim, "and when Gregson gets here, then perhaps you will be able to discover why they were killed. Until then, you can do nothing."
"I know that – and it is simply driving me to distraction!" he nearly shouted, then suddenly apologizing as I winced at the loud noise.
"Come along, old fellow, let us go downstairs and wait for the official forces of law and ignorance," he said with not even an attempt to disguise his derogatory sarcasm.
Mrs. Hudson had laid a cold supper for me and made a pot of tea, which I forced Holmes to at least have a cup of – his voice was once again becoming hoarse and he was starting to cough again.
Gregson arrived just a little past eight and Mrs. Hudson showed the Yarder up to see us. When the door had closed behind our landlady, the inspector collapsed into the proffered chair Holmes indicated and stared at us both, a good deal of his earlier animosity gone now.
"This is the most extraordinary thing, Mr. Holmes. We found the first two girls' bodies, together, but there is no sign of the third!" he exclaimed.
"Suppose you start at the beginning, Gregson. Where did you find the bodies?"
"In an alley in Soho," the man replied. "Common enough occurrence, finding bodies in that area, so I did not even find out about the two girls until Secker came in and told me that they had been identified by personal belongings and then family members."
"They were together, you say?"
"Yes, Mr. Holmes."
"Cause of death?"
"One gunshot wound each, straight to the heart. No other evidences of abuse of any kind."
"That is rather unusual," Holmes perked up his ears at the news and looked at me.
"You are certain of that, Inspector?" I asked, puzzled.
"Quite, Doctor. There were no other marks on them, and they appeared to have met with no ill-treatment. Not what you would expect from abduction victims."
"No, indeed."
"That was why I thought you might be interested, Holmes. That is definitely an unusual circumstance," the Yarder told him.
"Yes, quite," Holmes said, sitting back in his chair and tapping his finger against his thin lips in thought.
"What did the girls have on their persons?" I asked, having scribbled this new information down in the journal I had left upon the table.
"Just identification cards in their handbags, a few shillings, and the usual mirrors, etc. that women always carry. Nothing of any help."
"That is extremely odd in and of itself," Holmes interjected suddenly, "for why go to the trouble of putting the girls' bags with them after the bodies were dumped in the alley?"
"The abductor must have wanted them to be identified," I guessed.
"Bravo, Watson! Yes, I have no doubt that you have hit it. Inspector?"
"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"
"Have you talked to the families and fiancées personally yet?"
"No, Mr. Holmes. They have been notified by word only, not by me. I came straight round to you as soon as I got the news."
"Good. With your permission then, may I accompany you to the homes of the fiancées? I have a few questions I should like to put to them," Holmes said, bounding out of his chair and throwing on his coat.
"I had not planned upon going to the fiancées tonight, Holmes – so be my guest," Gregson groused, "I am off duty for the night in twenty minutes."
"Very good. Watson?"
"I am coming," I sighed, pocketing the journal and grabbing my own coat.
"You will keep us informed, Gregson?"
"If I do not, I suppose you will be in my office at all hours," the man grumbled testily, "so yes, of course, Holmes."
"Thank you, Inspector. Come along, Watson!"
We hailed a cab and splashed through the rain-soaked streets back toward Kensington – the Harwicke girl's fiancée Victor Huntingdon lived not far from my own old address – but I was puzzled as to why Holmes wished to speak to the fiancée instead of the girl's parents. He must have formed some theory that he had not yet shared with me.
And judging by the studious expression on his face as he stared out the front of the cab, that was not a very difficult deduction to make. I settled back with a small sigh, wishing I had taken another pain reliever before leaving Baker Street.
As the cab rattled along on its way to Kensington, I was once again mentally assailed by the fact that this was no longer the way to my home that I had so often taken from my visits at Baker Street – my home was now in our sitting room, not in this area of town any more.
I turned my collar up against the chill that was infiltrating my coat and also my mind at the less-than-happy remembrances that were now filtering back into my senses. As we passed the street upon which I used to live, I felt Holmes's piercing eyes upon me.
"You holding up all right, Watson?" he asked softly.
I nodded, closing my eyes and trying to concentrate on the problem at hand instead of memories I could not change. I felt Holmes's reassuring hand as he patted my arm and then withdrew back to his thinking processes, and I began to attempt the same analysis myself.
Why had the Stewart girl not been killed along with the other two? Was it possible that her disappearance was not linked with the others' after all? And still, we were without a plausible motive for the disappearances as well as the murders now.
I finally gave up trying to puzzle it out, sighing and rubbing my aching head, hoping we were nearly there.
"I should not have had you come along, Watson. You should be resting," I heard Holmes's worried voice next to me as he perceived my discomfort.
"Nonsense. You never have been good at taking your own notes," I said with a smile, opening my eyes to meet his.
He snorted and then chuckled as he admitted that was so. It was only a moment later that we arrived at the address of the Huntingdon chap.
I was not relishing the thought of interviewing a man who had only just lost the love of his life, and I could tell Holmes was dreadfully uncomfortable with the idea as well. But it had to be done – we were running out of time for the Stewart girl.
Holmes rang the bell of the comfortable townhouse and we were within minutes shown into a spacious study. An instant later, the man we had come to see came into the room. As was to be expected, Huntingdon looked distraught and exhausted, dark circles having formed under his eyes throughout this dreadful business.
"Have a seat, Mr. Holmes, Doctor. I take it you are here about the latest news," the man said, almost collapsing into his desk chair.
"Pray accept our deepest condolences, Mr. Huntingdon," I said quietly.
"Thank you, Doctor," the man replied, putting his chin in his hands and looking at us, "Inspector Gregson had told me last I checked that you were investigating the disappearance of some other poor devil's fiancée. I would assume there is a connection somewhere?"
"Yes, Mr. Huntingdon. I shall try to be as delicate as possible, but certain questions must be asked," Holmes said hesitantly.
The young man looked at us tiredly. "Ask what you will, Mr. Holmes, if it will bring to justice the group who did this," he said.
Holmes stiffened. "The group? Do you know then how many there are?"
The young man's face flushed an uncomfortable red, and I noticed that he appeared to be extremely nervous.
"Well, no, Mr. Holmes – I was just assuming that – that there was a group, if they had been able to abduct three different girls from moving trains," he stammered.
"How did you find out about the other two girls and the trains?"
"That police inspector told me yesterday, when I stopped by to see if there had been any new developments," Huntingdon answered.
"I see. Now, Mr. Huntingdon. Had you heard at all from the kidnappers before tonight?"
The man flushed once again, and I wondered at his nervousness.
"No, Mr. Holmes."
"You had received no word at all?"
"No, sir."
"You are lying, Huntingdon," Holmes said warningly, "I know you are lying. Whom are you trying to shield?"
"No one!" the man cried indignantly.
"Then whom are you so frightened of?" my friend demanded, "for those are the only two reasons why an honorable man would lie to someone who is trying to bring his fiancée's murderer to justice!"
I cringed at Holmes's impersonal words, but I knew that we had to get at the truth, and we had no time to play around with anything other than the facts.
"I am not frightened of anyone now, Mr. Holmes!" the poor chap snapped angrily.
"Now," Holmes repeated, more quietly, "then you were at some point."
The fellow looked as if he were going to burst into tears at any moment, and I honestly would not have blamed him if he had. But he at the last moment pulled himself together and stared both of us down defiantly.
"I cannot help you, gentlemen."
"Why can you not, Huntingdon?" Holmes pressed earnestly, "have they threatened you if you go to the police?"
"I said I cannot help you, gentlemen. I must ask you to leave now, for I have several important matters to attend to," the man said, his face flushing once more.
Holmes was about to protest further, but I laid a restraining hand on his arm. I recognized the signs of an approaching complete emotional breakdown; we would get no more from the man tonight.
To my immense surprise, Holmes took my advice and we bid the poor young fellow good evening.
"The blithering idiot!" Holmes snarled once we were back in the cab. "His silence can do nothing to help his fiancée now! Why would he not tell us what he had found out from the gang before they killed the girl!"
"It might possibly be because he was grieving, Holmes," I snapped back at him, "or that they threatened to kill him if he told what he knew. Both are equally good reasons for silence!"
My friend sighed wearily. "Of course, you are right, Watson. But it is so positively infuriating! If I could just discover what the gang said to the two dead girls' fiancées before now, then I shall be able to anticipate what will happen to our client. And that could make the difference between life and death for Anne Stewart."
I fell silent, thinking about Eckerton, as our cab plodded along to the address given to us by the Walsh girl's mother, the Stover fellow's place of residence, and hoping desperately that the poor fellow would be of more help to us than Huntingdon had been.
Philip Stover was a tall young man with an honest face and a sharp appearance. Although he obviously was very distraught by the news of his fiancée's death, he was still courteous and asked us to take a seat.
"Have you been engaged upon the case to discover who is behind the murders, Mr. Holmes?" was his first question.
"Not exactly, Mr. Stover. I have been employed to find a third young man's fiancée who disappeared in the same fashion as yours did," Holmes said gently.
The young man's eyes filled with tears, but he blinked them back and faced us with a determined look.
"I will do all I can to help you, Mr. Holmes," he stated in a shaky voice, "the devils that did this must be brought to justice, no matter what the cost."
"I am very pleased to hear you say so," Holmes replied, "and since you use the term devils in the plural form, I take it you know more than you have told the police about the affair."
The young man took a shuddering breath and nodded.
"Yes, Mr. Holmes. I will tell you all I know. How I wish to heaven I had come to you or the police in the first place, despite their orders not to!"
The poor chap's face was twitching with suppressed emotion, and my heart broke for him. But I was very much impressed by the way he pulled himself back under control and addressed my friend with open frankness.
"Mr. Holmes, just three days ago I received word at last from the kidnappers. I was rather surprised that the first letter had come to me and not Elizabeth's parents, but when I remembered that they really are close to penniless, I thought no more about the matter, for I was assuming that ransom was the reason for her abduction."
"But now you know why they contacted you instead of the girl's parents?" Holmes asked eagerly.
"Yes, Mr. Holmes, and ransom was not the motive. I shall tell you everything I know," the fellow replied solemnly.
To be continued...