"Inspector, I assure you if I had murdered a man, I wouldn't dump his body into the Thames with my calling cards in his pocket."
"I wasn't insinuating that you'd killed the poor devil, Mr. Holmes," the little official backpedaled with a haste I found thoroughly amusing; it was such fun to see those Yarders squirm under a superiour brain! "I just thought you perhaps would like to know that someone in this capital wants your attention…either that or this fellow broke in here and stole your card-case, one or the other."
I rose from the sofa for only the fourth time in the last twenty-four hours, haphazardly tying the belt of my dressing gown, and went to fish about in my overcoat pocket, soon procuring my own card-case. Intact.
"None of my cards are missing, Lestrade," I reported the obvious in case the official were unable to perceive that fact for himself (which was actually more than likely), and tossed the case to the man for his own inspection.
"So it seems. But the case and cards are very similar," he replied thoughtfully, tapping a finger against the black leather. "It's an odd business, Mr. Holmes."
"That is definitely a word for it. I am far more interested in who wanted the man dead so badly that they were taking no chances in the matter." I threw the words over my shoulder as I rushed into my bedroom, digging about for a clean collar and tie...where the devil had Mrs. Hudson put them? "Give me ten minutes, Inspector, and I shall be entirely at your disposal."
Three-quarters of an hour later, I was following Inspector Lestrade through the heavy doors of the Scotland Yard morgue, feeling the cold stillness of death enveloping us in its chilling aura as we entered. Though a bit macabre, a morgue was an excellent starting point for anyone who wished to get into this investigating business – if the horror did not turn the man's stomach, he was more than suited for the job.
My interesting thoughts were shattered as behind me Watson, who had finally been good enough to grace us with his presence and tag along, let out a loud sneeze that made Lestrade jump nearly out of his skin (in a manner reminiscent of my brother's pet rabbit when I used to experiment upon him as a child) as the echo reverberated off the walls of the abysmal place.
"Sorry," he murmured guiltily when I laughed and Lestrade glared at both of us.
"Catching cold, Doctor?"
"I'm afraid I got caught out in one too many rainstorms," he replied with a stifled cough.
The official nodded sympathetically. "Half the force has been down with something or other in the last month. I don't mind telling you, gentlemen, I'm a sight glad that I'm not out pounding a beat in weather like this. Ah, here we are, Mr. Holmes." The Inspector pulled the sheet back from the body in question and indicated the corpse with a macabre flourish that I found in extreme bad taste.
"Good Lord…" I heard Watson's disgusted murmur as he glanced over my shoulder, sniffing annoyingly in my ear.
"Quite. Nasty business, and I've seen a few in my day," Lestrade said with a grimace. He let go of the dingy sheet and moved to pick up a clipboard from a nearby table, handing it to Watson. He barely glanced over it and in turn passed it on to me.
"No water in the lungs. Actual cause of death, one bullet to the heart," I read, glancing quizzically at the body.
"Death would have been instantaneous, in that case – why then the stab wound?" Watson asked, indicating a gash above the bullet's entrance hole.
"Don't forget the poison, Doctor."
Watson turned to fix upon the Inspector. "What poison? The man shows no visible sign of being poisoned."
"According to this," I waved the report at him, "his stomach was full of enough strychnine to dispatch a horse with ease."
"But strychnine kills within a half-hour at most, and has very distinct and visible symptoms such as tetanus within a quarter of an hour," he replied, his eyes lighting up with interest. "That means the man was shot only minutes after ingesting the poison."
I nodded, moving to look over the body myself. "Lestrade, I thought you said the man had also been strangled."
"Well, you see the bruising and the scratches on his throat, don't you?"
"Yes, but that was obviously caused by a woman's hand, and a small one," Watson replied before I could. "I doubt that such a small woman would be able to even exert much pressure over such a large man, certainly not enough to come anywhere near closing his windpipe. Looks more like an angry attack, maybe even in self-defense, than any actual murderous intent."
Lestrade flushed uncomfortably. "Well, I was trying to appeal to your interests, Mr. Holmes, so…"
"You exaggerated, yes, yes, Lestrade," I replied dryly, waving the man's infernal blathering off with one hand. "According to this, the time of death could have been anywhere in the last forty-eight hours?"
"Difficult to pinpoint it with the Thames as swollen as it is, and with the effects of the water on the body," Watson offered, burying his nose in a handkerchief and venting a muffled sneeze.
"Bless you, Doctor."
"Have you identified the body yet, Lestrade?"
"No, Mr. Holmes, his clothes were unmarked – even the shop labels had been cut out of them."
Strange. "And the only thing he carried on his person was a card-case full of cards that are not mine but purport to be. I would like to see the clothing, Lestrade."
"Right over here, Mr. Holmes; I had the lot sent back down here once it was dry…or mostly so, anyway."
"So, in order of occurrence, someone slipped this fellow a heavy dose of strychnine, and not ten minutes later he gets a bullet to the heart. Then after that, he's stabbed between the fourth and fifth left rib?" Watson asked bemusedly, looking at me for an explanation.
"It appears so. But…something about this bothers me, Watson." I picked up the clipboard once more and read the report more carefully this time from beginning to end. Everything appeared in order and matched the corpse in every respect, but still…something was wrong with this. Something was just fishy about the entire business, and I did not mean the connection to the Thames.
And not just the fact that the only clue on the body was my calling card. That was an extra bit to brighten up my day. Oh, lovely.
"Here you are, Mr. Holmes, though I think even your powers will come up against a wall with this mess," Lestrade sighed, dumping a still-damp wool jacket, a rough woolen checked shirt, a pair of rough work boots and sodden black socks, and a pair of brown trousers upon the table, none of which matched any other of the articles of clothing.
Ten minutes later, Watson took an inordinate pleasure in pointing out that Lestrade had been right – even my powers of deduction could perceive nothing useful from clothing nearly disintegrated in the swollen, filthy Thames, with all labels cut from said clothing. I could deduce absolutely nothing about the man that would further our investigation.
But Lestrade and Watson need not have been so perfectly jubilant about the fact of my failure!
I took a mean pleasure in seeing Watson sneeze again, so loudly that his face flushed in embarrassment and Lestrade jumped for the second time, dropping the clipboard I had handed him in his startlement.
"My apologies, Inspector…"
"Quite all right, Doctor. Mr. Holmes, is there anything else you wish to see here?"
"Nothing, Lestrade. Tell me how you found the body, exactly," I replied, casting a last glance at the man's corpse before we began to exit the morgue for a more lively, if less intelligent, place in the Yard's office wing.
"I got the call within my first ten minutes," Lestrade explained, shutting the heavy door behind us with a metallic clang. "Water police had found him floating in the river a few hundred yards beyond the Embankment and sent the call in. I got there just in time to help fish the blighter out...and I don't mind tellin' you, Mr. Holmes, it was a gruesome sight."
"How soon do you think you'll get an identification?"
"I've no idea, Mr. Holmes…I was rather hoping you'd be able to help us, seeing as the poor devil was carrying your calling cards."
"A potential client of yours, perhaps, Holmes?" Watson asked.
I shook my head. "If so, he should have been much more careful of the company he kept before coming to me. Most people who engage my assistance for preventing their murders do not wait until they have enough enemies to be shot, stabbed, and poisoned."
"Perhaps the body was a warning to you, then?" Lestrade offered, unlocking his office and gesturing for me to precede him inside.
I sat on an uncomfortable wooden chair amid a pile of paperwork and old teacups and Watson leant against the wall beside me. "If so, what would the warning be for?" I pointed out sensibly. "I've no case on hand, and I have not had for weeks now. Warning me from what?"
"Do you have any particular enemies at the moment, Mr. Holmes?"
"Not beyond the usual fraction of the populace. And most of those would sooner knife me in an alley than go to the trouble of an elaborate warning such as this. Why draw my attention in so outré a manner?"
"Has anyone been recently released or escaped from prison that might hold a grudge against you, Holmes?"
"If so, I've not seen it in the papers, Watson – and heaven knows they have been my sole source of reading material for the last fortnight," I grumbled, slouching in my chair and staring at the floor. My word, Lestrade really did need to sweep in here, the dust was simply atrocious under that desk…
This made absolutely no logical sense whatsoever. How could I track down a man with unmarked clothing and the body too distorted by water and violence to be beyond any real help in discovering his secrets?
Watson sneezed once again, in the close vicinity of my ear, and I glanced up at him in annoyance. He blushed in embarrassment, shuffling a step away, and opened his mouth to apologise. But before he could do so there was a sharp rat-a-tat on the office door.
"Would you get that, Dr. Watson?" Lestrade requested absently, rummaging through a drawer for heaven only knew what – his last clean teacup, most likely, judging from the amount of used ones scattered round the small office.
My friend turned and opened the door. Lestrade's sharpest subordinate, P.C. Randall Cummings, paused in surprise with his hand mid-salute.
"Oh, g'morning, Doctor."
"Good morning, Cummings. How is the little one's earache this morning?"
"Much better now, Doctor," the young fellow replied gratefully. "Those drops you gave him did the trick right enough. I'm awfully grateful to you, sir; the wife was fair at her wits' end with the lad these last three days."
"Not at all. Now if the symptoms worsen in the next twenty-four hours, make sure to call me back at once."
"Aye, sir, I'll do that. Alice was saying just this morning, that –"
"What is it, Cummings?" Lestrade interrupted with a sigh and a roll of the eyes in my direction as if to say be lucky you get to choose whom you work with.
"Oh, Inspector," the hapless constable stammered. "We – we've got another, sir."
"Another body?" Lestrade moaned and slumped back into his chair. "I've not got the report fully filled out on the one this morning!"
"Not another body, Inspector," Cummings reported, instantly snapping back into his professional role finally.
"Another what then? Come on, man, out with it!"
I have remarked before how such a little man can bellow louder than any actor of my acquaintance; his subordinates lived continually in fear of a dressing-down, courtesy of the best of the professionals.
Granted, best of nothing was merely a little better than nothing, but that was beside the point at the moment…
Cummings shot me an apprehensive look before turning his eyes back to the sheaf of papers in his hands. "There's been a purse-snatching on Swindon Street, sir. The chap got lost in the crowd, according to Constable MacPherson's report, but they retrieved the woman's purse in a nearby wastebin. It'd been emptied of everything except a black leather card-case containing six calling cards."
I suddenly had a crawling feeling slithering down the back of my neck that told me I did not really want to know whose name was printed upon those cards.
Lestrade's beady eyes darkened with an eager sheen. "Whose name, Cummings?"
Cummings gulped nervously. "Mr. Holmes's. Beggin' your pardon, sir."
To be continued...