Sherlock Holmes and The Scarlet Thread of Murder (3 page)

It started with a quiver of the lower lip, soon a stream of tears flowed liked two great rivers from her green eyes. “How can you possibly know any of this?” she begged an explanation through her sobs.

“Your dress, for one, is bulging ever so slightly around your stomach. You are not a rotund woman, yet I can see swelling in your fingers where your wedding ring has tightened. Furthermore, your fingernails; I can see a brown dust under them, and judging from the aroma obtained when I kissed your hand, you are taking Tabloid Opium for your morning sickness. So the logical explanation would be that you are with child. How do I know that you are looking for the father? Well, you said ‘they abandoned us' rather than ‘they abandoned me'. You also went out of your way to conceal their gender. So you may drop the act. I will help you but only under the umbrella of complete and total honesty.”

She held her head low. The kettle screamed, I quickly prepared three cups of tea. I brought them in on a tray with a bit of milk and sugar on the side. Mrs. Edwards lifted her head as I approached. With the assurance of the warm drink in her hand she told us her tale.

“His name is Phillias Jackson, a struggling businessman. He has all the charisma one could need, but he lacks the finance to succeed in anything. His profession changes on a weekly basis it feels, he could never keep to one line of work. He has passion though, a raw sort of attitude towards life, which was what attracted me to him.”

“And your wealth attracted him to you?” Hewitt interrupted. “Or your husband's wealth, I should say.”

“My husband is dead, Mr. Hewitt,” she said with a bite in her voice.

“Yes, but not three months ago.”

“And how do you know?” she demanded.

“Mrs. Edwards, or rather, Mrs. Goodtree, I recognise you from the papers. Your husband, Thomas Goodtree, died in that terrible explosion at the Whitechapel station,” said Hewitt. “Now, it will be much easier if you tell us the truth from the start.”

Her eyes widened. She had a child-like look of surprise upon her face. She was caught out completely with no more places to hide.

“Yes, yes, I can see that. Thomas was a good man, but he was so wrapped up in the shipping business that he paid little attention to me. I never cared to be rich, I simply wanted a happy life. So when I met this passionate man, Phillias, I gave in to my desires. Thomas cared little about what I did or where I went, so he never knew. He spent all this time with his business partner. I tried to get Thomas to take Phillias into their business, and even introduced them. But then I fell pregnant and we discussed what we would do. We agreed that we would run away together with the money we had and start a life somewhere new. Then one day he sent me a note saying he had some other business to take care of out of town and that he'd be back in a week or two. That was two and a half months ago. He never came back, nor have I heard from him. He's just gone! I've lost my uncaring husband and the one man who did care is missing. I don't want to make a public ordeal of this, Mr. Hewitt. That is why I've come to you. More than anything, I need closure. If he's dead, I need to know.”

“Were there ever any feuds between your husband and Phillias?” Hewitt asked.

“Never. The times I saw them together they acted like gentlemen.”

“And when did you see them together?”

“Not often. But as I said, I introduced Thomas to Phillias and for a while he did do some work for them. Neither man complained about the other, at least not to me. I have no reason to think there was any issue between them at all.”

“Where did he work for them?”

“Thomas and his partner had a factory on Nine Elms. Phillias managed it.”

“Very well. And as you have no idea where he went I think it would be best to look around Mr. Phillias's home for a clue to his whereabouts. What is his address?”

“I'm not sure. He never disclosed it to me. We only met in hotels.”

“Dear me, Mrs Goodtree, this is quite the mess. At what hotels did you meet?”

“Fashionable ones. The Savoy, most recently. The Langham Hotels and the Midland Grand on St. Pancras.”

“Would you know anyone that might know where he lives?”

“Thomas's partner, David Daniels, he might know. He lives on James Street by Lancaster Gate.”

“Can you give us a description of Phillias?”

“He is tall, about six feet. He had a lovely face.” Her eyes began to well, but she fought back the tears.

“Please, no romantics,” Hewitt interrupted. “Tell it straight.”

Our guest took the rebuke on the chin. Straightening her posture she continued.

“He is six foot with peppered hair,” she continued, “he has a rugged face, and he rarely shaves, so he usually has a thick layer of stubble. When I last saw him, he had a moustache. I could always find him in a crowd as he wore a bowler hat with a card pinned to it.” She paused a moment, and her lips quivered. “The card was a Queen of Hearts, and on the backside, the side facing the hat, was a photograph of myself. He calls me the queen of his heart, you see.”

“His eyes and face, any unique markings upon them?” Hewitt asked.

“His eyes are a swirl of colour, a brownish green - very earthy and wild. On the left side of his face, just before his ear, is a mole. His frame is thin, but strong. His nose is slightly arched in the middle. He often has bags under his eyes from late nights working, and his cheeks are sunken as he never eats enough. He does have a small scar upon his right hand, and one upon his left index finger. He was cut badly, so the scar is quite visible.”

“What type of dress?”

“Gentlemen's dress. A blue waistcoat was his favourite. A black frock coat and grey trousers with a green-checked pattern.”

“Very well. Brett, you and I will go see what we can find out from Mr. Daniels. Where can we find you, Mrs. Goodtree?”

“Chester House, Elsworth Road, near Primrose Hill.”

“Ah, yes. I know it.”

Mrs. Goodtree rose, as did we. I walked over and opened the door. She stopped in the doorway and turned back. “Find him, Mr. Hewitt. I can't bear this child without my sweet Phillias.” With that, she rushed down the stairs and out of sight.

Chapter 4

D.I. Edmund Reid

An Anarchist's Playground

August 1890

Kipling and I left the Whitechapel and Mile End station and embarked towards Brick Lane where Lamech and his Jewish anarchists were known to make camp. The maria battered along the cobbled streets, the driver shouting abuses at the filth that either stumbled into the road or felt the necessity to stand there. I looked at my watch; the time was near three o'clock. I realised I had not eaten since I left my home and my bride, Emily. By now she would have heard of the explosion and I could only imagine her panic for my wellbeing.

I saw the piercing steeple of Christ Church ahead as we drew nearer and nearer to Lamech's dwelling. Kipling sat across from me gripping his baton, his knuckles were white, and his face grimaced.

“Steady, Kipling,” said I. He turned his eyes from the cabin floor towards me, and a half smile broke on his face.

“Yes, sir.”

“No need to be. We are simply going to have a conversation with Lamech, not break down his doors... yet.” I grinned in an attempt to ease his tension.

The maria came to a jerking halt, thrusting Kipling and myself backwards and forwards. The driver called that we had arrived. I looked up and down the street. There was an eerie quiet that loomed in the stale air. Our only company was the foul stench of urine and other bodily remains that swam in the gutters. We ducked down an alley and approached a black door. I pounded upon it until it was jerked open. A short man with dark hair and a thick beard answered. His eyes met mine with disapproval and disdain.

“What do you want?” he asked in a thick Polish accent. He raised his arm and leaned on the doorframe, and I saw that his arm was speckled with tattoos. Upon his wrist I noticed a small symbol - the Hebrew Alpha symbol and on the under part, connected by a chain, the Omega symbol.

“I need to see Lamech. I know he's here,” I demanded.

“This some sort of joke?” the man demanded, his face turning red.

“I'm not joking,” said I. “Now, where is he?”

“Lamech is dead, you bastard!” he shouted. “Don't act like you don't know!”

“Dead?” I retorted, taken aback by his news. “What is the cause?”

“You English and your fake ignorance. You can't pretend you know nothing of this.”

“I assure you we do not.”

“How did he die?” Kipling asked.

“What is this man doing here?” roared a voice from inside. A tall lanky man with wide-set eyes and a large nose sprung towards us. His wrist bore the same tattooed symbol. It was a sign showing which group he belonged to.

“We are here to speak with Lamech, but your friend here tells me that he is dead,” said I.

“I know you, Inspector Reid. You think you can cleanse Whitechapel. Rid it of vermin like us!” shouted the tall man. His hand was jerking and I noticed him playing with a silver ring with the Star of David embedded on it. “I will not have your presence here!”

“I do not need your permission. Now, if there has been a death, I want to know the cause. Should I suspect anything, it will not cost me any great trouble to rally my troops and arrest you all for illegal imports, petty theft, and other random acts of violence.”

“Mr Reid, maybe one day you'll follow through with your threats of arrest,” the tall man replied. He turned and walked away saying: “Show him in.”

We followed the short man down a dark hallway, and then up a narrow stair and into an attic. The room was covered in Jewish symbols. A desk was piled with newspapers, letters, and several thick Torah scrolls. A strong aroma of incense hung heavy in the room. In the far corner sat two women on the floor, their backs to us. There was a body laid out in front of them. The tall man stood in a corner, smoking a cigarette. The women turned to look at us. One was elderly and frail looking, the other young and fair-skinned.

“They are his mother and sister,” the short man informed us.

“I am Ruth,“ said the young woman. “This is Naomi.” Ruth pointed towards the older woman.

“I am sorry for your loss,” I said removing my hat.

“Can you tell us what happened?” Kipling asked.

“We do not know,” Ruth said. “He was fine until last night. He felt ill, talked lots of nonsense, as though he was dreaming but still awake. Then he fainted.”

“When did he breathe his last?” I asked.

The young woman looked at me sternly. “Is it always straight to business with you, Mr. Reid?”

“May we have a look at him?” Kipling asked softly. I was impressed with Kipling's tact, and the woman appeared softer towards him. Ruth nodded and we approached.

“He departed from us an hour ago,” Ruth said. I looked upon the face of Abraham Lamech. There was a strange shading under his eyes and a sort of yellowish tint to his skin. His body expelled an aroma that was not one of death. It was something else. A toxin, but I could not be certain of which one.

“Was he with anyone last night?” I pressed.

“Not that we are aware. He went out for a drink.”

“At what time?”

“Haven't you pressed enough?” the tall man said from his corner, still fiddling with his loose ring. “I think you can leave us now.”

“I think not. His manner of death was no accident. He was poisoned.”

“He went to the Inn round the corner. The White Stag,” Ruth said.

“Quiet, woman!” snapped the tall man.

“They need to know,” she returned softly, but her eyes gave him a piercing stare.

“Do you know who he saw there? Was he meant to be meeting anyone?” I asked. They were unsure. “Has he had any plans to bomb the Whitechapel and Mile End station?”

The women were silent.

“You come here accusing a dead man of this?” the short man said.

“He did it, or someone wants us to think he did. An explosive very much like the ones we know he has used in the past was the cause of the tragedy today. Many are dead. If he had nothing to do with this, it's important that we learn who did, but it all points here.”

“We know nothing of it,” the tall man said. The short man looked uneasy.

“Cooperation will go a long way,” I returned. The room remained silent.

“We'll cooperate when swine like Lord Myers stop trying to force the Jews out of the city!” exclaimed the short man. The other shot him a fierce glance.

“I'm not here to discuss matters of prejudice, nor the thoughts and actions of Lord Myers. I am here about the underground station. We will need Lamech's body for autopsy .”

***

Kipling and I came to an agreement with Ruth and the others regarding Lamech's body. I sent Kipling back to the station to make arrangements for the body to be retrieved while I carried on to The White Stag. The streets were still quiet as Lamech's followers mourned his passing in silence. Soon enough the sound of glasses clashing and the murmur of sloshed men could be heard here and there. I approached the public house, the smell of stale beer rushed into my lunges as I set foot inside. Glares of disapproval followed me as I walked up to the bar.

“Your name, sir?” I asked the bartender.

“Jeffry,” the man managed to mumble.

“Lamech was here last night. Who was he with?”

He wiped out a glass with a dirty towel. “Don't know what you mean guv'ner,” he said, and put the glass onto a shelf.

“Give us some gin,” said a man at the bar. Jeffry grabbed a bottle and glass and filled it for him.

“I know he was here,” said I. “You can either help me or I can have a look at your books. I know you've made arrangements with local whores for the use of your rooms.”