Chapter 8: Frustrations and Delays.
The meeting of the entire team took place on the evening of the 12th of March. The following morning, I had an earlier start than my usual shift at St. Bart's, so I did not have much time to talk with Holmes other than a companionable good morning and best wishes for a productive day. I had barely enough time for some scrambled eggs, sausage, toast and two cups of coffee before I had to dash off. Just as I was leaving through the front door, a telegram arrived for Holmes. Mrs. Hudson brought it up, and I knew nothing more about the matter. My day at Bart's was busier than I expected as not only were cold and influenza cases still running high, but two carriage accidents, and a scaffold collapse at a new office building for legal and financial partnerships, brought in a greater number of seriously injured people. It wasn't until after 10:00 PM that I finally made my weary way up the familiar seventeen steps of 221B Baker Street. I met a tired Mrs. Hudson at the foot of the stairs who had just finished bringing a recently arrived Holmes a plate of bread, cold meat, and cheese. I gratefully accepted her offer of the same for me and told her I would come down in a few minutes to fetch it - sparing her another trip upstairs. I greeted Holmes briefly as I went to freshen up and put on my robe and house slippers. After I retrieved my plate and 2 bottles of ale from Mrs. Hudson, I joined Holmes as he sat close to the fire, both of us eating our food. It wasn't often that we ate informally like this. It was only when the day was long, the room cold, and both of us were weary. I gave Holmes only the briefest summary of my busy day choosing instead to concentrate on the much-needed light supper provided by our ever-patient landlady.
When both of us were finished eating, and with our ales almost gone, I finally asked Holmes about his obviously busy day. "You clearly had something of a long day of it, Holmes. I hope you didn't get too cold down by the docks."
"How did you know I spent my day outdoors, or that I was down by the docks?" Holmes asked me, a weary but curious smile passed my way before he turned to face the fire again.
"I saw your coat hanging on the rack downstairs. It had liberal mud splashes and stains on the bottom, and on the sleeves, especially near the cuffs. It's a type of mud and staining that both of us pick up only when we are down by the docks or slogging through the Thames mud. Your coat also had a small dab of paint near the right pocket, indicating you spent time at another location as well, likely not related to the dock or the river. The way you have stretched your legs out indicates that you got quite cold and stiff today. Then there's the telegram that arrived this morning just as I left. It was delivered by Wilkes, our rather familiar Scotland Yard courier," I said.
Holmes gave me one of his rarest warm smiles. "Oh, well done, Watson. You are really beginning to observe after all. You are right on all points. Wilkes brought not only a telegram, but an urgent summons from Inspector Adams. A rather messy break in was discovered at Hartwell house, with two seriously beaten men at the location- one of whom was Sir Roger Burnsworth. It would appear both men were at the wrong place at the wrong time, likely having arrived far too early this morning and catching an extensive turning out of numerous officers by a team of professional thieves who were looking for information, the type of which is yet unknown. Some office renovations are going on at the location, and our violent thieves took the opportunity to toss a lot of that shade of paint all over the place on the way out. They tracked through none of it but covered a great deal of pretty much everything - as was clearly their intent. It's not known what's missing, as much of the office paperwork was thrown about deliberately. They left a lot of the normal type of footprints outside, which explains why I spent much of my time investigating a crime committed indoors from the outside, sifting the countless tracks left by our criminals and the usual herd of buffalo masquerading as constables. A more hopeless mess you could not find anywhere!"
"So how did a Hartwell House case turn into the Thames?" I asked.
"I spent almost six hours combing through the carnage at Hartwell's and was just thinking I had given Adams all he could reasonably expect to start with, when I got another summons from the ever-faithful Wilkes, bringing a message from Gregson about three bodies found in a large packing crate near Greenland Dock. The constables with Adams were dull as wooden swords, but Adams himself is bright enough. He's got enough for now. I expect that many of the constables, especially the early responders, will be receiving a tongue lashing for the way they trampled through the evidence, both inside and out. Perhaps some training and awareness may come of it."
"So, what happened at the docks?"
"It was a big crate, likely used to ship large machinery, found under the sea wall, near some washed-up debris. The debris was random; the crate most definitely was not. It clearly was dragged there. Unfortunately, the tidal action had removed most tracks and other clues. The victims were a man, woman, and a teen boy, not desperately poor by their clothing, and most likely foreign. Each was bound, no identification found. All were shot in the head at close range. You know I try not to allow crime scenes to emotionally impact me, but I have to say, it was an utterly ghastly sight. Downright obscene. Examination of the bodies and tracing some of the markings and numbers on the crate may yield some clues, as well as possible missing person's reports. Otherwise this will be a hard case to crack."
"Good Lord Holmes! You really seem to find them. How did you leave it with Gregson?"
"A reasonable investigation may be possible if the Yard can find out something about the crate's origins or some likely candidates for the victims from among the list of missing persons. There is significant leg work to do but it's the type of activity the force usually excels at. Gregson got whatever insight I could provide, as well as an overview of how I would go about filling in the missing pieces. For now, there's not much I can do, although I have assured Gregson of my full assistance if he can fill in some of the first initial pieces. Meanwhile, I have several other pots to stir, and our poison pill case of course."
"As usual Holmes, I go off and have a frightfully busy day, believing it's been a hard slog - then I come home and find that your day makes mine sound like a seaside holiday."
Holmes laughed and shook his head. "My friend, again you misjudge yourself. You relieve the sickness and suffering of others, save lives, and help bring life into the world, all as your normal daily fare. I submit that I bring justice and closure to those in need of it, but otherwise yours is the more immediately noble profession. There's a reason I don't pull you into cases as readily as I used to. Your busy schedule means many depend on you, often in critical ways. I can always use your support and company, but not when so many others need you more."
I was surprised and touched by Holmes's unexpected warm words. I knew he appreciated my skills, but he seldom spoke of such things. My work helped many, but I felt ordinary, especially when measured against Holmes's unique and extraordinary skills. Many other doctors could do what I did, but there was only one Sherlock Holmes, one man of his skills, even measured against the entire capacity of Scotland Yard or the best criminal investigators the modern world could offer. As I finished my brandy and prepared to bid Holmes good night, I could not help but feel a wave of gratitude. I had a useful and fulfilling life. Yes, I had lost my dear Mary, but I was healthy, productive, valuable, and appreciated. I helped people, healed the sick, and I was able to aid and support one of the foremost minds in the world in his vitally important work. I even was fortunate to call that man my closest and dearest friend. Indeed, I had many reasons to consider myself blessed above many others.
I expected to hear of numerous developments on the open cases Holmes was working on in the next few days. However, that is not what happened. The dockside murders did not yield many new clues beyond a confirmation that the victims were likely from Germany and were recent immigrants or just arrived. The crate was eventually turned traced to an import warehouse in Liverpool specializing in imports of equipment from the United States. Nobody reported missing passengers, or missing immigrants or visitors that never arrived at their destination. It was going to take a more detailed and painstaking search to begin to make headway. This left both Holmes and Gregson frustrated as they both knew that every passing day would make it more unlikely to find the murderer. The constant flow of ship traffic from all over the world meant that any seafaring suspect might well be thousands of miles away before they even knew who he was. At least a break came in the Hartwell House case the following week. A careful sorting and investigation of the blizzard of scattered papers yielded a profile of what was missing - a highly select series of bonds, and the tracking paperwork that would allow anyone to claim ownership of the lot. It was enough to allow Holmes and Inspector Adams to track the bonds back to an employee from one of the larger clients serviced by the loan firm working from that address. The attack victims all survived, but each would bear permanent scars, and none of them would ever be the same.
Regarding our long-running case of the mysterious pills, the investigation moved forward even more slowly than our most pessimistic predictions. Hiring our temporary team of outside experts proved to be a much harder and more tedious process than we expected. I was able to break away from my work at Saint Bart's for a day and a half to review and then interview some of the candidates. Few of them appeared to have the experience we needed; fewer still understood the true nature of the kind of investigative research we expected. It took a full three weeks to get the four finalists we believed would be the best match to our needs. Every night I met with Holmes, Sergeant Thomas, and Mercer to go over the latest candidate data and interview results. It appeared we would have to offer a higher pay rate to attract better candidates, but at least we had four people that we felt could meet our needs. It wasn't until Monday the 8th of April that they were able to start working full-time. By then, the data backlog was greater - and we were all frustrated and impatient with the lack of progress.
Making matters worse, we had yet another suspicious death - this one in Manchester. Unfortunately, we heard about it on the 25th of March, but the death occurred on the 19th. The pattern was the same, a young, poor woman, Lavender Merton, living in London, but visiting Manchester to visit her sick sister, was found to have been agitated and 'acting full crazy' before she ran off, only to be found eight hours later, having thrown herself off a railway bridge. Her death had been ruled a suicide, caused by her sister's illness. Since she was originally from Manchester, her shocked and grieving family had quickly claimed her body, and had her buried on the 23rd. Holmes, Lestrade, and Thomas rushed to Manchester immediately upon hearing about the death, but the event was already a week passed, the victim buried, and any useful evidence hopelessly gone forever. The police inspector from Manchester, George Lansing, simply could not be roused into thinking that anything beyond a young, unstable woman's tragic suicide had taken place. A review of the coroner's report showed nothing unusual beyond the obvious severe injuries expected from such a death. Unfortunately, the coroner did not look for anything unusual, because he wasn't expecting anything. Interviews with Miss Merton's sister and her devastated parents yielded no clues. Even the clothing and personal effects had already been retrieved from her small boarding room in London by her brother. He retrieved her clothing, personal articles, a few books, pictures, and mementos, but left the 'litter and bits of nothing' to be cleaned up by her landlady.
"Holmes was utterly livid, completely beside himself," Sergeant Thomas told me later. "He sent a frantic telegram to the landlady to not clean the room, and to leave everything left exactly as it was. Unfortunately, she cleaned the room as soon as Michael left with his sister's effects, as she had a long waiting list of girls hoping for an open room. Holmes persuaded the family to let him go through everything brought back from London, but nothing of use was found. To make it worse, the family had told the coroner to dispose of her bloody clothes - and they never found her reticule if she even had one. I have seen Holmes in black moods and Lestrade said he's seen years of them, but neither of us have ever seen Holmes like this."
"Are you sure this case is related to the others?"
"No, we don't know, and we can't know, at least not with the lack of evidence we're facing. This is why Holmes is so frustrated. He's staying on in Manchester for another day, hoping to gather additional data, but I believe he will fail at that. There doesn't seem to be anything left to gather."
"And the rooming house?"
"I went by immediately after arriving back in London. It's true, the room was thoroughly cleaned as soon as Michael, the brother, left. Another young woman was already moving in when I arrived."
"What damnable luck!" I groaned.
"Indeed, Doctor. Well now you know the details. I'm telling you everything, as Holmes will likely not want to discuss this at any length when he returns."
Sergeant Thomas was right. Holmes arrived home very late that night, depressed, frustrated, and hungry. I assured him I already had the major details from Thomas and he didn't need to rehash the miserable state of affairs – for which he was grateful. Mrs. Hudson had already retired for the night, so he contented himself with a loaf, butter, and beer from the sideboard followed by a large brandy. After a lengthy moody silence Holmes spoke up at last.
"I have said it before, but it bears repeating. You have the grand gift of silence. Few people have it, fewer still combine it with patience and grace as you do. Mycroft can be silent but often doesn't have the patience. Only our gardener when I was growing up possessed the skill - but unlike you he wasn't very forgiving. You are the best of friends and roommates, old boy."
I was stunned by this candid outpouring of candor and warmth from my friend, especially considering his current state of mind. "Glad to be here for you Holmes, in any way. Always have been. I only wish you could catch a break in this case or even a way to definitively tie all these deaths together."
"That's just it, Watson! What's the connection? Who? What? How? and Why: I need data not wild guesses or even the educated assumptions we have been going on. How many more young women have to die before we move forward?"
The tone in Holmes's voice and the look of despair on his face were rare indeed for all the years I had known him. This was not only a terribly frustrating and difficult case, but it was also becoming a crisis of conscience and a test that Holmes took personally. Could he ultimately rise to the needs of the moment and pull success out of a vast mound of failure? Holmes was often ruthlessly critical of other's failures and shortcomings, but he was hardest on himself. The lack of data was a personal reflection of his obtuseness, and failure to see what perhaps should be obvious, and nothing would convince him otherwise. Until we broke this impasse, Holmes would not let it go - or forgive himself. This was going to be a long hard road and we both knew it.
"Perhaps we'll get the data we need when we bring the extra manpower on board," I suggested, trying to get Holmes to focus on the positive. "It's too soon to despair, and even more so to give up. You've had desperately hard cases before."
"It's not difficulty or my personal hardship that concerns me, Watson. It's the deaths. Young women, all dying mercilessly terrible deaths. One after the other, lives snuffed out without notice or regard. If there's a just and merciful God out there somewhere it's hard to believe He can stand by and do nothing!"
It was a measure of Holmes' dark mood and despair that he would reference divine intervention, or a higher power in any way I knew Holmes was not an atheist or even an agnostic. He was a believer, but not in a way he readily discussed. While I sometimes spoke of my faith in a merciful God, and Holmes knew that Mary and I used to attend church regularly, Holmes spoke of religious or spiritual matters only in absent ways, and then very rarely. However, every now and then a biblical reference would come up in a case or with a client where Homes astonished me with his detailed references to Christian scriptures, as well as his understanding of Jewish Muslim Hindu and Buddhist texts. Somewhere in his distant past he had invested a lot of time and effort in theological study. He never spoke of it, but it came out in unusual ways.
"For what it's worth, Holmes, I firmly believe that Justice comes for all of us, and that for the wrongdoer, there will eventually be a reckoning. If not in this world, then the next. I can hope for better, strive for better, and do my part for better. Beyond that there's no more I can do. I make my peace with that as best I can, as must you. I often wish it were otherwise."
Holmes sighed and said, "As do I Watson. As do I."
By mutual unspoken agreement, we dropped the topic for the night. I knew that Holmes would sit up ruminating on the topic long after I went to bed. Knowing this was going to be a difficult slog, I resolved to be there and to help as best I could. It would have to be enough.
The 8th of April came at last, and our four new teammates got started. I took a long break from my shift at Bart's and met all of them for lunch along with Sergeant Thomas. We gathered at a small pub halfway between Scotland Yard and the hospital where we all had a generous version of what passed as a ploughman's lunch. All our new colleagues were recent graduates, two twin brothers, one just graduated as a doctor and the other with an advanced degree in organic chemistry: Robert and Samuel Alansby, respectively. The remaining two graduates were Liam Faults and Brighton James, both doctors who had graduated in 1893 and had spent the time since in studies focusing on pharmacology, with hopes of specializing in research and creating new medications. I found them all astonishingly bright and impossibly young. Was I ever so young keen and ambitions as all that? Memory told me I once had been, and it really wasn't all that long ago. They, on the other hand treated me like a revered celebrity, which I suppose I was. I took my writing seriously, but not the fame that came with it. Holmes was indifferent to my "fictions" at best, and most of the people I knew well had known me for years. Any novelty had worn off long before. Yet to these young men, Holmes and I were the stuff of legend, with me as a worldly all-knowing doctor and author, and Holmes being an almost unapproachable, forbidding stage, far beyond normal human comprehension. Lestrade and Mercer had spent several hours with them already. Gregson would speak to them after lunch, and Holmes would meet them late in the day. They had already been warned that their workdays would likely be long and irregular, with lots of self-motivation and personal initiative involved. They were excited, clearly eager for opportunity and thrilled to be working with people of note. Only time would tell if they felt like this a month from now.
After spending longer speaking to them than I had scheduled, I left them in the sergeant's capable care. I told them we would talk frequently but said that it might be at odd hours, either very early or late, and probably at Baker Street. As I took a short cab ride back to St. Bart's, I considered that the meeting times might be inconvenient, but if sergeants, senior inspectors, and even high aristocracy can visit Holmes late at night in his sitting room, so can four young men with something to prove.
I didn't see much of Holmes that week. Delays and frustrations had left him eager for progress of any kind. If he could force it by an application of brute force or intellect, then he would. I knew he was also working several cases not related to this project, and yet was spending hours every day reviewing results, redirecting, making suggestions and teaching brief informal sessions on interviewing, following leads, observation and deduction, and even chemical analysis. I knew his chemist skills were highly advanced, but it was still unexpected to see him teaching advanced techniques to students already well-schooled in the latest knowledge and methods.
So much for Holmes' claim that he regularly emptied his brain attic. I always suspected that claim was more a wish born of one burdened with a far too active mind, rather than actual fact. I learned long ago that both Holmes brothers had prodigious memories with close to absolute recall. The difference was that Mycroft embraced the fact, and cultivated the skill, whereas his younger brother, being of a far more active and impatient nature, wanted to be ready to hyper focus in an instant. Sherlock feared that idle thoughts on the many topics he had learned could leave him distracted and vulnerable at the wrong moment - perhaps with fatal results. Mycroft could well afford to sit in a chair for hours and idly speculate. His brother could not. The older brother would always be a man tuned towards broad strategies, while Sherlock was best suited for the field of action.
I thought of Holmes' vast skills of recall frequently in the following weeks, as hundreds of names, dozens of companies, innumerable facts, data points, and countless interlocks were considered and recorded for future speculation. I was able to take occasional days away from Bart's to get directly involved. Otherwise, it was long nights reviewing data with Holmes, Lestrade, Gregson, Thomas, Campbell, and Newton, and all our new colleagues. Holmes spent long hours deep into the night updating endless notes in a large notebook that he carried with him everywhere. I was able to help by organizing data such that the final recorded results would be useful to others beyond those familiar with Holmes' eclectic techniques and thought processes.
Our sitting room became even more crowded than our usual level of chaos, Chalkboards were covered with Holmes' obscure scribblings and a large cork board usually stored in Holmes' bedroom, came out, adding permanently to the expressive clutter. The chaotic situation drove Mrs. Hudson to distraction, until Holmes went downstairs and had a long earnest talk with her. He did not usually share case details with her, often for her own safety. I suspected that he made an exception in this case, because she didn't say a single word against the growing scene of disorder from then on. She even came upstairs once, took a good hard look at the layout, and then made a few suggestions on how to organize the space more effectively. She was right. Her ideas made a big difference in both efficiency - and our day-to-day living circumstances.
Author's Note: Sorry for the long time period between updates. Each chapter is written out in longhand (using a 70 year old vintage Parker 51 fountain pen from my wonderful wife.) She then helps by verbally transcribing each chapter – which is then edited yet again for punctuation and grammar. I probably have about 83K words written by now, but it takes that extra effort to go from A5 paper to final upload… More will be coming soon. Thanks for reviewing!