Chapter Eight
~~o~~
I was still staring at the cover of the worn volume in my hands when our host spoke again.
"Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me for a moment, I shall see about fetching us all some tea," he said, excusing himself graciously.
Once the curator had left the room, I pounced upon Holmes for some manner of explanation before Dr. Maynard could return.
"Explain yourself, Holmes," I said. "Just what is this all about, what does it have to do with Matthews, and what the devil am I actually looking for in this book?" I asked, waving Moste Notorious Pyrates at him.
Holmes chuckled briefly at my frustration.
"Calm yourself, my dear fellow," he said, reaching across the table and patting me on the arm. "You already know that we're dealing with mariners, and likely those of dubious reputation at that, but what you weren't privilege to last night, is the fact that before the excitement broke out and I was forced to make my inelegant French exit, I managed to have the most enlightening conversation with one of the Oxford's regular patrons."
"Pray, do share it with me so that I have some notion of just what is going," I said in exasperation, setting the book down.
"I shall begin by telling you that I was somewhat mistaken, Watson," Holmes answered, dropping his voice and keeping an eye on the door to the research room in anticipation of Dr. Maynard's return with tea. "I was quite certain that Matthews must be the owner of the Oxford Club, which I discovered that he indeed was, and that in order to gain admittance one must have his device upon their arm." Here he tapped his right forearm again. "But what I learned from my amiable and forthcoming drinking companion...Barrows I think his name was, is that in order to gain admittance to the club, one must simply have the emblem of any one of the nine Pirate Lords upon their arm."
Holmes paused briefly, waiting for the significance of what he'd said to make its impression on me.
"Actual Pirate Lords?" I asked, frowning in consternation.
"Oh yes, Watson," Holmes said, adopting an amused smirk. "Apparently by you applying this symbol to my arm, you have made me a vassal of sorts to one of the Nine."
"Might I remind you that you insisted that I put that horrid thing there?" I retorted. "And just what do you mean?"
Holmes ignored the evident annoyance gathering in my demeanour and went on.
"Apparently it is a well-known fact amongst pirates that Pirate Lords still exist in this day and age. Any mariner will tell you rumour of such, but most shrug it off to legend or sea lore myth. However, a little gold and a little more rum for my drinking companion Barrows assured me I had proof enough in front of me in that nest of vipers," Holmes replied, flipping open one of the books before him, "although I'll wager heavily in favour of that information being absent from even Maynard's most extensive and quite impressive collection.
"Nine Pirate Lords, Watson, shrouded in secrecy and obscured by anonymity, yet each title has been passed down surreptitiously to a successor or descendant for nearly the last one-hundred and fifty years."
"Surely, Holmes, the Royal Navy would be aware of such a thing if it truly had been occurring?" I protested.
"Yes, and Scotland Yard would be just as aware that the Oxford Club was a meeting place for some of the worst flotsam and jetsam to have ever washed upon English shores," Holmes replied mordantly with a pointed look at me over the book in front of him. He huffed arrogantly. "Such a simple thing it would be for any of them to penetrate the fog surrounding that place; surely it is no denser than any of their number."
He flipped a few more pages in mild agitation as I took up the book before me. "Still," he said more gently, "I suppose that it is rather beyond their jurisdiction."
"But not yours," I replied, earning myself a gracious nod from Holmes when he realised the comment had been meant as an offhand compliment. "So then, tell me what it is that I am looking for in this book," I continued, anxious to be of some assistance as usual.
"Two things," Holmes replied, holding up a pale hand. "One," he said, unfolding a long finger, "the identity of the Pirate Lord to which this mark belongs. And two," he said, another elegant finger joining its neighbour, "information about that person and his greatest rival."
"You really think Matthews was this Pirate Lord we're looking for?" I asked incredulously.
"Quite so, Watson," Holmes replied, flipping to the first chapter in his book about the Lords of the Adriatic Sea; apparently they were in alphabetically order for convenience. "And not," he added, skimming a few pages and then moving onto the Atlantic, "nearly as retired as he would have people believe."
"I'd say he's fairly well retired now," I added in dark humour, earning a look of frank agreement from Sherlock Holmes. "You think the murderer to be his rival?"
Holmes nodded and would have spoken again had Dr. Maynard not returned at that moment with a laden tray in his hands. Before Holmes could adequately protest, tea had been poured, and Maynard had installed himself in the chair next to me.
"I don't normally let my resources out of my sight, Mr. Holmes," he began pleasantly, "but seeing as your time is running short before your appointment, please feel free to take whichever books you like with you."
"I should hate to impose any inconvenience on you, Dr. Maynard," Holmes began to reply, cut off by a lightly dismissive wave of the older man's hand.
"I rather think that I can trust Mr. Sherlock Holmes, of all people, to return a book to the library," he said with wry humour.
"Indeed," Holmes replied with a brief smile. "Thank you. I shall have them back to you by Monday next."
"So how is it that you gentlemen know Miss Hastings?" Maynard asked as he sipped his tea and Holmes poured over the pages in front of him concerning the Pirate Lords of the Black Sea.
I took it upon myself to answer, as Holmes was obviously engrossed in his research. "We've only just made her acquaintance this week, although Holmes investigated the murder of her brother several years back."
Dr. Maynard shook his head. "A bad business, that," he said sadly. "The Hastings family is one of the finest I know. Dr. Hastings has never quite got past that tragedy, and I know that both he and Lydia still feel immensely guilty about being away at the time – Sydney I think it was."
"Victoria," Holmes corrected him absently as he scrutinized the picture of a fierce-looking brigand on the page in front of him. "Returning from research in Tasmania concerning some subspecies of reptile, if memory serves."
"Quite right!" Maynard cried cheerily. "I'd nearly forgotten. The old bean isn't what it used to be anymore, "he said, tapping the side of his head with a finger. "Oh, ask me any name or date in that book, and I shan't make the slightest error, but even now I'm not quite certain just where I set my hat upon arriving this morning." He chuckled at his self-deprecation in a way that I couldn't help but feel was infectious.
"Ah! I remember!" he suddenly exclaimed. "I left it with the morning paper on the chair outside my office. Queer business that, in the paper, I mean."
"We were up and about early this morning, Dr. Maynard," I explained, leaving out the details of just exactly where we had begun our day. "What was it that was in the paper this morning?"
Holmes at that moment spun the book he was examining around to share the picture of Ammand the Corsair with me, and raised a meaningful eyebrow. One glance at the ruffian on the page told me that I was also quite happy not to have lived in the same century as he.
"Why, they've found another constable who'd been assaulted last night," Maynard continued explaining as Holmes reclaimed his book. "That's the third this week. I daresay Scotland Yard will be quick to get to the bottom of this; it won't do much for their reputation to have the police being caught with their trousers down."
Maynard then chuckled so heartily at that moment, that I suddenly realised he was being quite literal.
"You don't mean to say..." I began.
"Oh, quite, Doctor, quite," Maynard replied, trying unsuccessfully to quell his amusement. "It really is no laughing matter, I know, but you must admit that three constables found tied up au naturel is a difficult thing not to crack a smile over."
"Were any of them injured?" I asked, just as Holmes casually tipped the book my way again to reveal the black standard on the first page of the chapter about the Pirate Lords of the Caspian Sea. Its design exactly matched that on his arm, and I realised we had just gained another step forward in our investigation.
"Just their pride," Dr. Maynard replied, bringing my thoughts back to the topic he and I had been discussing. "All three, according to the Times, were grabbed from behind, chloroformed, and left in a secluded spot...erm...leafless, as one might say.
"At least it has been quite warm," I said. I couldn't help but join Dr. Maynard in a bout of laughter, until, that is, we were both cut short by the look Sherlock Holmes now wore.
"Dr. Maynard," he asked, and I recognised the directness and intensity in his voice that I knew signified he had gathered up another thread of the case, "were the uniforms of the three most unfortunate men found?"
Maynard nodded. "Two of them, yes, according to the paper. The third they haven't found just yet."
Holmes's expression darkened perceptibly as he considered Maynard's answer for a moment, and abruptly he let out a wordless snarl and pounded his fist against the table.
"And they shan't!" he cried, leaping to his feet. "Watson! That book!" he said, jabbing a finger at the one in front of me. "Bring it with you; we must go!" With that, he snatched up the book he had been examining and turned to Dr. Maynard. "Doctor, I thank you," he said hurriedly, "but the point you have just brought to my attention means that Dr. Watson and I now have another urgent stop before we meet with Miss Hastings. I shall, with your leave, retain these two books. Good afternoon!"
Before Maynard could utter a word of reply, Holmes had jammed his book under his arm and swept out the door.
I was already on my feet a second after Holmes had gained his, and I likewise gathered up my book and made for the door.
"But what has he discovered?" Maynard asked me curiously, clearly puzzled by my friend's most sudden departure.
"A link!" Holmes called back from the hallway. "Another link, but the ends do not yet meet!"
I offered Maynard an apologetic smile for leaving him in the dark, thanked him again, and dashed off to try to catch up with Sherlock Holmes.
Holmes swept by the closest news seller, abruptly leaving one less newspaper and one more coin behind, and quickly hailed a cab. I had barely time to pull the door closed when the cabby had whipped up the horse, heading for Scotland Yard as Holmes had ordered.
"Holmes, what..."
I was cut off by an abrupt gesture from my agitated companion and then had the paper thrust into my hands by him. "Verify the account if you would, my good doctor. You will find, no doubt, that it is the uniform of the third officer chronologically, and not the first two, which has not yet been discovered, and yet found at the scene of the latter assault, but neither the former nor the first, will be a bottle of chloroform, previously belonging to one, Dr. Gray."
I found the article concerned with the three unlucky constables, and confirmed all while Holmes stared unseeingly out the window, obviously vexed.
"It's all here," I said with a sigh as I folded the paper, amazed still despite the number of times I had witnessed such an accurate prediction from Sherlock Holmes. "How did you know?"
"It is absurdly transpicuous," Holmes replied with that occasional maddening supercilious air of his. "It is quite obvious that the first two assaults were a blind, my dear Watson – decoys only."
He then adopted a more thoughtful and slightly reverent attitude.
"It is a deception of perfect balance: outré and insulting enough to Scotland Yard by the third incident that they no doubt have overlooked the significance of the missing third uniform. They assume they will find it soon enough; they found the first two, why not the third? I have no doubt that they lack the capacity to imagine that the point of the whole affair was the theft of a constable's official garb; they will take this quite too personally, and in their indignation overlook the obvious."
"But to what purpose was the theft of a uniform, Holmes?" I asked, still needing at that point to catch up with my companion by several paces.
"My good fellow, where is the single place that one may not go unless he is dressed in the uniform of a constable?" Holmes asked me, adding, "Detectives and criminals aside, of course."
"Scotland Yard," I replied, unable to keep the smirk out of my tone even if I managed to keep it from my face, "where you have so recently been as both of the latter."
Holmes raised one eyebrow for a moment but otherwise ignored my comment. "And what, friend Watson, is now currently in residence at the Yard, that our as-of-yet unknown perpetrator evidently wishes to acquire a great deal?"
"The heirloom flask!" I gasped, catching up by several steps. "So you believe that the individuals who killed Henry Matthews, robbed Dr. Gray, and assaulted and stripped the constables are all the same person!"
"That is the naked truth, Watson!" Holmes replied vehemently, lightly pounding a fist on his knee. He paused then, allowing himself a small chortle at the nature of his exclamation in relation to the crimes in question and then went on. "I have no doubt that this is the case. There will be no more attacks on constables; he is done with the chloroform and has discarded it. I suspect that he will don his ill-gotten disguise and attempt to infiltrate Scotland Yard, most likely tonight, when it is occupied to a lesser degree by officials than it is during the day."
"The nerve!" I cried indignantly. "You plan to warn them, then?"
Holmes nodded. "I shall see if Lestrade might not think it better to keep the flask on his person for another day or two, rather than leaving it with the rest of Matthews's belongings, where he has no doubt placed it by now. We should have just enough time to speak with him and make our way to the next museum before our deadline with Miss Hastings."
After that we rattled along in silence, Holmes pondering matters in a cloud of cigarette smoke as I left him to his thoughts and began flipping through Moste Notorious Pyrates. I skimmed briefly over Henry Averill and Anne Bonny, amazed that women were included in the illustrious ranks on the pages in my lap, and opened the chapter recounting the life and deeds of the most famous of the Lords of the Caspian Sea, Hector Barbossa.
"I say, Holmes," I interrupted him after reading for some moments, "I think you should see this..." The drawing on the page before me was old and crude, originally meant for a public notice regarding a wanted criminal of the early eighteenth century, but there was no doubt, if one took away the flamboyant plumed hat and cut the hair shorter, that I was looking at a face that closely resembled that of Henry Matthews. Holmes, inclined to keep to his own thoughts for the moment, must have seen the look of astonishment that had crossed my face, and glanced down at the book I had turned in his direction.
"Halloa," he said softly, emerging from his reverie to raise an eyebrow at the illustration before him. He scrutinised the old drawing for some minutes, speaking at last as he discarded the remnants of the cigarette he had finished. "Apparently our friend took his role very seriously. Look here," he said, tapping a finger on the page and indicating the scar that Barbossa carried on the same side of his face as Matthews. "Ah! And here is the tooth!
"This matter, Watson!" he uttered softly but excitedly. "This matter has layers upon layers which we have not yet penetrated." He fell back against his seat, fingers pressed together before his lips, silent again for the next two minutes until the cab drew to a stop outside Scotland Yard. "Come, Watson!" he cried, even as he sprang from the cab.
I put down my book and bid the driver to wait, hurrying once more to catch up with Holmes as he came nearly full circle to where he had started his day. To our great relief, Inspector Lestrade was in his office, and Holmes knocked and opened the door all in one gesture, causing Lestrade to frown heavily at the unexpected intrusion.
"Holmes, what..." he began indignantly.
"Where is the flask?" Holmes demanded, cutting him off.
"The what?"
"The flask, Lestrade! Matthews's flask!" Holmes expounded impatiently.
"In the evidence room," Lestrade replied with no little irritation. "Mr. Holmes, what is this all about?"
Sherlock Holmes quickly explained his hypothesis to Lestrade, and while a good number of the Yard's less experienced investigators might have dismissed the connection between the assaulted officers and the death of Henry Matthews, Lestrade had heard more outrageous theories from my friend that had proved to be completely accurate, and he nodded gravely and stood.
"I'll get it now," Lestrade said, already heading for the door with keys in hand. I nodded a greeting at Sergeant Wilkins as we passed him in the hallway, as did Holmes, and if he found any amusement at seeing my companion now on the other side of the jail bars that afternoon, only the subtlest twinkle in his eyes would have said as much.
"We'll set a warm welcome for our friend for tonight," Lestrade said as we hurried along. "He'll find it easy enough to get inside, but not quite so easy to get back out."
"Not too easy," Holmes cautioned him as the three of us walked down the corridor. "We are dealing with a most clever individual, Lestrade, and someone who will become suspicious if walking into the evidence room at Scotland Yard appears too simple a matter."
"Do you really think it will be tonight, Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade asked as we rounded a corner.
"There is no doubt in my mind," Holmes replied. "While I shall not go into details until I have them all in their proper order, I will, however, tell you that it is my sincere belief that this man is working under somewhat of a time constraint."
"And why is that?" Lestrade asked.
"The reason is one of my aforementioned details," Holmes replied dryly, and if Lestrade was inclined to argue, he was accustomed enough to the famous detective's methods to know it was best to say nothing more for the time being.
Sherlock Holmes was poised to speak again, but held his tongue as we passed another constable in the hallway, headed back the way we had just come. "It would be best if only a few people knew..." Holmes broke off and stopped in his tracks, grabbing Lestrade by the arm and drawing him near.
"Quickly, Lestrade!" Holmes whispered urgently to the surprised inspector in his grasp. "Ask that man if he has seen Inspector Lestrade!"
"You want me to wha..." Lestrade began, but once again he caught up with Holmes a step faster than I did, and he turned and called back down the hall. "Constable," he addressed the retreating man, who stopped short at the very end of the corridor and turned.
"Yes, sir?"
"Have you by any chance seen Inspector Lestrade about?" Lestrade asked, while Holmes surreptitiously motioned me to be silent.
"Can't rightly say that I have, sir," the officer replied courteously.
"No matter. Carry on," Lestrade replied casually, but I was able to read just what had occurred in the look that he and Holmes shared at that moment.
"Very good, sir," the constable answered, turning and making his way around the corner. Five seconds later we heard him bolt down the hall.
"We mustn't let him leave the building!" Holmes cried suddenly, sprinting back down the way we had come, followed a heartbeat behind by Lestrade. It was only as I dashed after them that I realised the man we were following was the impostor that Holmes had predicted, and not only had he the nerve to infiltrate Scotland Yard, but he'd done it in broad daylight.
~~o~~