Disclaimer: ACD's invented characters are recognised. Events to historical people are fictitious. Geography is as correct as I can get it.
Chapter 2
The morning inrush to London had expired in its usual chaos. Trains pulling into the eleven platforms of Waterloo Bridge Station had disgorged their contents - city workers, bankers, lawyers, they had all made their way from the leafy suburbs of the capital and were now at their desks, working hard to earn their keep. The enormous station now took on a different air as its clientele changed: it was families making out of the metropolis, business people making leisurely journeys to far-flung destinations, servicemen travelling to new postings away from the capital. We joined the crowds on the concourse at the end of the platforms to await my friend's arrival.
The eleven o'clock train pulled in from Portsmouth. We scoured the exiting passengers until at last we saw him – a lonely, haunted, figure. Arthur had obviously not changed his overnight clothes. He saw us at about the same instant as we saw him, and he broke into a run to join us.
"John!" he exclaimed. "Thank goodness you got the telegram. I was worried it might get diverted. And this ..." he turned to my friend ... "is obviously the illustrious Mr Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective." He shook Holmes' hand warmly, who responded with obvious pleasure to the accolade offered.
"Doctor Conan Doyle. Watson has spoken of you."
"I have a fair tale to tell, gentlemen," he continued, "but first, my brain is in such a confusion following this morning's events, and we must urgently speak to the Station Master." With that he was making his way towards the manager's office which sat on a deck above the central platforms.
This clearly bemused Holmes, who had obviously expected to be in charge of whatever was to befall us that morning. "Good sir, wait! Why ....?"
Conan Doyle was almost running at this point, with us behind trying to keep up. "Two trunks were loaded onto a train which arrived here only a few hours ago," he called to us over his shoulder as he hurried towards the Master's office. "I am certain that one contained the body of the murdered woman; the other, perhaps her kidnapped husband. We must track down what happened to them and more importantly, where they were taken and who has them in their keeping."
Holmes, beside me, muttered, "This is getting more and more interesting, Watson. Certainly a most diverting problem to be solved, I can see. And your friend has, as I expected, an admirably organised mind in spite of his experiences earlier today."
Arthur had reached the stairs to the office and was a good dozen steps in front of us as he leaped up them. At the top he paused for us to catch up, and then burst unannounced into the Station Master's office. Although he was none too pleased with the intrusion, being in the middle of his morning refreshment which he spilled all over his desk, the Master soon provided the answer needed – that no large crate, box or any similarly described package had been unloaded from the five o'clock from Portsmouth.
We left the office and returned down the stairs and onto the concourse. The events of the morning were now starting to catch up with Arthur, who was visibly wilting. I proposed some refreshment, and left Holmes with him whilst I purchased three mugs of a liquid which, although advertised as tea, were unlike any version of that beverage I had previously encountered. When I rejoined them Holmes was clearly in his element in concluding his initial questioning of my friend.
"This is becoming quite fascinating, Watson!" he exclaimed as I gave each their beverage. Holmes, I noted, put it to one side and did not touch it again. Arthur drank his in a single draught. "The main point of interest, clearly, is the involvement of the Police. It is not easy to obtain uniforms which are adequate to pass off to an educated man." He smiled at Arthur. "And yes, I have allowed for the fact, as you state, that you were tired and the light was poor. We must not build too much on conjecture, but I believe the balance of probability is that they were genuine policemen."
I must have shown my amazement, for he continued, "Assuming they are genuine – and that is what best fits the, albeit limited, evidence we have at present - there are only two alternatives, Watson. Apart from these two outcomes, no other propositions match the reported events, and so you can follow my methods in concentrating on these two alone. It will avoid crowding out our consideration of the matter in hand with unnecessary mental lumber."
"Very well, lead on, Holmes," I said shakily, but smiling towards Arthur who was watching with amazement to find that what little he had heard about Mr Sherlock Holmes from me was, if anything, understated.
"The first possibility, then, is that these two may have been acting to nefarious ends of their own devising. Please, gentlemen, do not for a moment consider that just because a person is an officer of the law that he is in some way immune from the effect of pressing situations or circumstances which could drive him to desperate measures. Policemen are human too. Alternatively, the more uncomfortable possibility is that they have been tasked by a person or persons unknown, to carry out this activity and have been given the authority to include the murderous act they committed."
My mind was awhirl. "Yes, but Holmes ...."
"Look at what we have to hand. The facts as reported from what your friend has told us. If the two visitors were the genuine article, it becomes clear that, either way, the plan was to abduct the husband with little or no fuss. What better way is there to achieve this, than for policemen to arrive on the scene and arrest him? To 'take him away for questioning'? It is probable, although of course not certain, that the wife was not present at this point – given the time of night I would propose she would still be retired in bed. It was only as, perhaps, the husband made some grievance about the procedure that she arose and the deed was done to her. It could have been in the street, although if so we do have another uncertainty, namely why neighbours were not roused by the commotion or indeed the shot. We will be able to ascertain why this was when we get to the scene. Wounded, she then makes her way to the doctor's house to get help."
"We discussed why it was to my house she came," interrupted Arthur, who was obviously a little brighter for the scant refreshment, and who was indeed eyeing Holmes' undrunk tea with clear greed. "It seems that probably it was by chance. She would not be able to see clearly the house numbers at that time of the morning, gaslight or not. Although I have a doctor's plate on the door, if she had been a patient I would have recognised her."
"So what are you suggesting," I asked, "that the abduction was an arrest gone wrong?"
"No, no, my dear Watson!" laughed Holmes grimly, "By no means. The murder alone, and the express removal of the body as evidence, suggests criminal intent. No, clearly the facts, from what your friend tells me, are these - the planned, forcible, removal from a Portsmouth premises of a gentlemen, present identity unknown, and the shooting to death of his wife, who tried to stop them, has occurred in Portsmouth." A wry smile came to his face, and nodded his consent as Arthur took his drink and downed it in one gulp. "Those are the facts. I can with some confidence add that, in light of the shooting of the wife, their grounds were not what we would term 'legitimate'." I was evidently still showing signs of my amazement at his assertion that officialdom was involved, since his tone became more clipped. "Watson, you may believe they came with genuine intent, but I am afraid that their actions at all points belie their true ambition. They came prepared for any eventuality, to 'get their man' at any cost, and to dispose of any witnesses who may have got involved in the process. Perhaps hoping for none, but being prepared for all."
"But ... the police ..." I was quite at a loss to see how members of our constabulary could display such behaviour and contempt for life. "Surely there could be a more rational explanation...?"
Holmes' eyes flashed in frustration. "No, Watson, it will not do! I am sorry to disabuse you of your sense of right and wrong, of good and evil, and your belief in a clear delineation between the two, but I am very much afraid that here we have a crime which could reveal wrongdoing at the highest levels." He paused for a moment, as if weighing up his next words. "On balance, of the two possibilities I have just outlined, I do not believe we have two wayward officers acting alone. There is too much preparation, and what would the motive be? There is some evidence of a higher, guiding mind. They knew for example that the good Doctor here …" He indicated Arthur. ".... would be able to contact the local constabulary, as indeed he did. Neither would it be practical for the local force to claim the events were otherwise than as he records them. A shooting leaves evidence. I believe that, through your good friend here, we may have stumbled upon a crime conceived and executed by the will of high levels of authority. Which will make getting to a solution most inconvenient."
"Most inconvenient, Holmes?" My mind was still reeling at the prospect of forces of ill at work in one of our greatest and most respected institutions.
Holmes bit his lip in thought. "Yes, inconvenient. There is a danger that once we start to investigate this matter, we will find ourselves pitted not only against the party which has commissioned this deed, but working against us may also be those agents of law and order who we would normally consider to be on 'our side'. We may not be able to turn to them for assistance. These are deep waters indeed."
"But investigate it you must, surely, Mr Holmes!" exclaimed Conan Doyle. "I shall never forget that woman's words, as long as I live. We surely cannot just leave the matter and hope that it goes away."
"Indeed not," replied Holmes with a flash of a smile. Clearly his respect for my friend was growing by the minute. "If only for the sake of the husband, who may even now be suffering distress and be unaware that he is a widower. Watson." He turned to me. "With your friend's leave, I think that we do indeed need to visit the scene of the action."
Arthur brightened visibly. "Good. I hoped for no less when I saw you had prepared bags."
Holmes waved his comment aside. "And you should have expected no less. Watson, three tickets to Portsmouth, as quickly as you can. And don't forget – First Class!"
Within a few minutes I had procured the required documents, and we made our way to the compartment. Settling ourselves in, I looked at London's hustle and bustle, and quietly said goodbye to it.
The carriage lurched as the train started its journey. As we passed along the platform we saw women waving to their men folk, parents to children, relatives to their kin. And then we were out of the great train shed and running along a viaduct through the grime of the great city, elevated on striding brick pillars above the filthy slums of the metropolis.
Holmes was silent, deep in thought. He seemed to be studying the line of route closely as the train made its way through the urban landscape. Arthur tried to engage him in further conversation, but with a dismissive wave of the hand was made keenly aware that my friend required to be left in silence. Arthur and I thus passed the journey in quiet small talk.
As the journey progressed the inner city gave way first to the leafier suburbs of Surbiton, Wimbledon and Kingston, and then to the open country. The occasional stop at some town or village – Woking, Guildford, Haslemere, Petersfield - punctuated our journey, until at last we passed through a tunnel under the South Downs and started our long, twisting descent to the coast. Holmes was still looking out of the window, watching intently the passing countryside, studying each station as we stopped to let passengers leave or join the train.
In a little over two hours after we left Waterloo Bridge Station, we crossed a wooden drawbridge and were now on the island upon which Portsmouth was built. Fifteen more minutes, and we were standing on the upper level platform of the Town Station, watching the train departing onwards for its terminal call at the Harbour Station.
Holmes had not said a word in the entire journey. We gathered our bags and walked down the steps which connected the upper platform to the concourse below. Away to the northern side of the concourse, workmen were toiling noisily as an extension to the station buildings was being added. Briefly pausing as Holmes studied a timetable in the station lobby, we then passed through the doors of the station and out onto the street. As we did so, the bustle of the naval city welcomed us with a rush of sound and smell. Holmes stopped and looked around with too obvious disdain at the very different manner of population than he had been recently acquainted in the capital.
To the left of the entrance a line of cabs was waiting. We commandeered that at the head of the queue, loaded our cases, and were shortly being driven the short distance to Arthur's house. We passed under the railway bridge, across a building site which the cabbie assured us would one day be the location of a grand Town Hall, and were soon driving down elegant streets lined by trees and fine terraces of houses, three storeys high.
The cab drew to a halt outside Arthur's very handsome house in Hampshire Terrace. A group of workmen were working their way along the pavement from the south, cleaning it thoroughly with buckets of water. "They will destroy evidence of the woman's journey to the good Doctor's house!" Holmes exclaimed, running over to them. We followed to see what influence Holmes would have, being so far from his usual haunts.
"Stop!" he commanded, and the foreman turned angrily to face him.
"Wot? Wot you want, then? Don't you go orderin' my boys around, 'ooever you are, right?"
Holmes stopped abruptly. It was as though I could see the thoughts in his head. What is this very different form of life…?
Instead he drew himself up to his full height. "I am Sherlock Holmes. You may have heard of me."
"No." The word was almost spat out in a broad Hampshire drawl.
I caught Arthur's eye and could not help but smile. This could be a long, drawn out investigation.