Sherlock Holmes and The Scarlet Thread of Murder (5 page)

“The others?” Hewitt asked.

“Mr. Potts is also thin, but taller. Dark hair. Moustachioed. A nice man. I've had many conversations with him, a very excitable fellow. From south London; Putney, I believe,” Evans said.

“Putney, you say?” Hewitt enquired. “What brought him here so often?”

“He said he works nearby, never said where though. But he likes city life and entertaining his lass.”

“And what of this Phil Jacks?”

“He was a strange man. Didn't speak much, at least to me. He, too, was dark haired. Always a bit unshaven. He arrived and left at strange hours. He seemed to me like someone who was always looking over his shoulder, if you get me.”

“I think I do.” Hewitt affirmed. “These men haven't been here in several weeks.”

“Correct,” Evans said with a nod. Hewitt stroked his chin a moment.

“It might be fruitless, but can you show me the rooms they last stayed in?

Evans agreed and took the keys to the last three rooms the men had used. Hewitt was thorough in his examination of each room. Opening anything that'd open and moving anything that'd move. Unfortunately no useful clues had been left behind.

***

Next, we travelled to the Langham. Hewitt had a confidant there who made entry and access to information much easier than it had been at the Savoy. The man's name was Wilfred Barnaby, an elderly rotund little man with thick sideburns, beady eyes, and fat wet lips. We three sat with him in a room, looking upon the guest list. Mr Barnaby's chubby fingers scrolled the list while commenting on people he recalled. Most often he commented on the women he remembered.

“Oh yes, Madam Crane. She was a lovely bird,” Barnaby said with his snicker. “Oh! Mhm. Mrs. Jessica Owens. Yes, she was pretty little thing. All the lads fancied popping her corset off, haha.”

“Barnaby, I am grateful for your service. Might you do us one more favour?” Hewitt asked.

“Anything you wish, Mr. Hewitt!” Barnaby exclaimed.

“Fetch us a spot of tea, would you now?”

“Oh of course!” With a smile and shuffle, he left us.

“An excitable fellow, isn't he?” I commented.

“He is, Brett, he is,” Hewitt said with a eye roll. “He has a one track mind.”

Hewitt's attention was fixed on the list of names. I found myself in need of a stretch so I stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. The sun had gone in, and a gentle drizzle fell from the sky. Under the illuminations of the street lamps, cabs clattered as fashionable and not so fashionable individuals hustled from one place to another on this chilly and wet night. I smoked a cigarette then returned inside, only to find Hewitt pulling on his coat and ready to leave

“What is it, man?” I demanded.

His eyes were ablaze: “Come now, let us go to St Pancras!”

The light mist had become a heavy rain by the time we arrived at St Pancras. Hewitt and I emerged from our cab with no umbrella, and fumbled our way through a crowd of people into the hotel. The doorman looked upon us with displeasure at our wet state. Hewitt patted the man on the shoulder and told him sardonically not to worry as we proceeded to the front desk.

“How may I help you... gentlemen?” a young-faced woman asked, eyeing us dubiously. Hewitt explained our situation and asked to double-check their records. Her hesitation was minimal, but we did have to explain ourselves to the manager, Mr Hodder, who had some recollection of my friend, before we were allowed access to the information. Luckily for us, Hewitt had made a name for himself in London; while his fame was limited he was nevertheless known by people that needed to know of him. Had it not been for the manager reading about his affair with the Red Circle, I'm not sure how successful we would have been.

Hewitt excitedly perused the records in front of us. The manager hung behind, watching his every action. I detected a glimmer of excitement in his eyes as he watched my friend work. There was a brief interruption when a messenger boy delivered a note us. Hewitt eagerly read it.

“The field is narrowed!” he shouted, leaning back in his chair with tremendous force. The hotel manager and I looked at Hewitt with interest. “The ginger man from Worcester, Walter James is none other than that who he says he is: Walter James.” Confusion befell me a moment. “Phil Jacks and Bryan Potts!” Hewitt said pointing to the ledger excitedly.

“Ah! So these two men are likely to be Phillias?” I asked.

“They are.”

“It seems obvious that Phil Jacks would be Phillias Jackson. Making a deviation of his Christian name to appear as if he's another man altogether.”

“My good man,” Hewitt said, turning to look at Mr Hodder. “Tell us what Phil Jacks looks like.”

“I can do better than that,” said he. “Mr. Jacks is in the hotel this very night. If he is a villain in some crime, I should like him to be caught sooner rather than later!”

We followed the man to the desk, where he picked up a key and then darted up a flight of stairs. We came to the room of Phil Jacks, and the manager pounded upon it heavily, calling out the man's name. We then heard the sound of a woman squeal. Terror pulsed through me.

“My God,” the manager whispered and rapped on the door.

“Where is key, man?” Hewitt demanded. We heard a crashing sound. “There is no time!”

The manager looked at us in fright. He forced the key into the slot and swung the door open. He dashed inside, with Hewitt and I following behind, only to find Phil Jacks and a maid in the act of coitus. There was a moment of severe embarrassment for all of us.

Mr. Jacks shouted obscenities as he and the maid covered themselves up with blankets. Turning away we quickly left the room. After a ruckus and further abuse being said, Mr. Jacks opened the door. His face was red with anger and the woman was nowhere to be seen.

“What in the hell is going on here?” Mr. Jacks roared.

“I do apologise, Mr. Jacks. This is Mr. Hewitt, a private detective...” the manager began in a panicked tone.

“I don't care who this man is! Tell me why you barged into my rooms?” He looked angrily between the three of us. Then I realised something unique. The man was clean-shaven, had no scar upon his index finger, nor a mole on the left side of his face. Phil Jacks this man might be, but Phillias Jackson he was not.

“It is our mistake. We took you for a criminal,” admitted Hewitt. “We were being shown to your rooms in order to apprehend you, but unfortunately you are not the man we seek.”

“Forgive the mistake, Mr. Jacks. I shall make it up to you,” said the manager nervously.

“Indeed you shall! The rest of my stay will be on your tab!” Jacks turned and slammed the door shut, the force of which rustled our hair.

“Let's discuss this downstairs,” Hewitt whispered. We were taken into a small office where the three of us sat down.

“This is not good. No, not good at all,” murmured the manager.

“What can you tell me of Bryan Potts?” Hewitt asked.

“Potts?” Mr Hodder said, “My mind is too caught up in what just happened. I could very well lose my position here!”

“You will be fine, Mr Hodder. Now, I need you to tell me what you know about Bryan Potts!” Hewitt spoke sternly.

The manager pulled his nerves together at Hewitt's request: “He is an odd fellow, very loud and presumptuous. He's stayed here a few times...”

“Four times between March and September, going by your books,” Hewitt added.

“Quite right,” Hodder nodded. “It was rumoured that he was bringing a married woman back to his rooms. But you know how staff gossip, nor was it any of my business what the man does.”

“Tell us of his appearance,” Hewitt pressed.

“He was tall with dark hair. A bit of grey . He often appeared unshaven on his cheeks, not a beard, no, just untidy. He had a thick moustache. He always wore a bowler hat with a playing card tucked into the flap. I assume that he's a bit of a gambler.”

I passed a glance a Hewitt but he remained fixated upon the manager.

“Your recollection of the man is quite remarkable,” Hewitt admitted

“I possess no remarkable powers of observation or deduction,” affirmed Hodder. “The final time Potts was here, he was most unruly and I banned him from ever returning. The excitement over Jacks caused me to forget about the indecent with Potts.”

“What transpired?”

“He stumbled in to the foyer about seven o'clock in the evening. He was incredibly angry, and ranting about some indiscretion with his lady friend. He held a cloth to his face. It appeared to be blood stained. I asked him to calm down and not to make a scene. He became aggressive, and shoved me. I fell to the floor. I could see, even in his craze, that he regretted it. I told him he was to leave at once and the belongings in his room would be sent to him, otherwise we'd call the police. He gave me his address, and that was the last I saw or heard of him.”

“Did you retain his address?”

“I did.” Hodder searched through his desk and withdrew a book. “The address he gave us, and the one that we sent his belongings too, was Davenport House, Wood Road, Putney.”

Chapter 7

D.I. Edmund Reid

A Silver Lining

August 1890

I departed for
The Weekly Dispatch
with a couple of officers to accompany me. The day had turned grey and dismal, and a light mist waved through the air as we went the city. Anger burned inside me. Eustace Brown was a foolish journalist. Ever since the Ripper events, journalists had become thirsty for blood to stain their papers, eager to rip at the flesh of a story and display its innards in black and white for the masses to see.

We passed through the doors of the newspaper headquarters. The officers and I walked through, calling out for assistance. No one came, everything was quiet. We looked through open doors into untidy offices, but not a single person was there.

“Inspector Reid!” one of the officers called. I stepped out of an office and into the hallway to see him coming towards me. “We found a body.”

I followed him into another room. There was a man with his head pinned to the desk with a large blade. It was Eustace Brown. The blood that stained his desk was dried and brown. I could see a mark on the back of his neck from where the killer had held him down before ramming the knife through his skull.

I examined the paperwork on his desk: Brown had been in the middle of writing another report regarding the events of the Whitechapel Underground attack, and the effect they would have on London's growing Jewish population and the anarchists at large. There was an interview with Lord Myers, a member of parliament who made his negative position quite clear on the matters of Jewish immigrants. It seems he, too, was crying out for Jewish blood in light of the Whitechapel explosion.

“This is a mess!” I said, walking over to the door. I leaned against the frame and looked into the room. Nothing appeared out of place. “What happened here?” I asked myself. I looked over to the left and pictured the scene: When Brown walked in, someone could have concealed themselves behind the door waiting for him. I looked behind the open door. When Brown sat down, the perpetrator could have revealed themselves, but whatever he did, Brown did not raise an alarm. The desk was a mess of papers, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary for a writer. The two might have engaged in conversation as the perpetrator walked behind Brown. I followed the trail and stood behind the dead body.

The indentations on the floor, from where Brown habitually scooted his chair, were old not fresh, which meant he didn't try and thrust his chair back. He just sat there. The perpetrator grabbed him by the back of the neck, shoved him down and killed him. He then, presumably, left by the front door. No, he wouldn't do that. Anyone who saw him would know he killed Brown.

“Gentlemen, find an open window!” I commanded.

We searched the rooms rapidly. There was nothing on the main floor. I ran up the stairs to the next level. There was a small room with cabinets and papers. At the far end, facing a back alley, was an open window. I looked outside. The drop would result in injury. As I started to pull my head back inside, I looked to the right and noticed something interesting. A copper pipe was within arm's reach. It was dented and at the top the guttering was bent and broken. The roof above was flat, it would make for a quick and invisible get away. I reached for the copper pipe. I slipped. My heart suddenly raced. I was able to grab the inside of the window frame, stopping myself from falling out. I pulled myself back inside, I suspect the man who pulled this off had aid of a rope and used the pipe and gutter for extra balance.

Around back, there was a metal stair that led to the roof. I left one officer in the room and told the other to look around outside on the ground. I raced up the stair and made my way to the roof. The wind was cold and strong, and the rain was coming down harder. I looked at the area in which the villain had climbed atop the roof. I heard a slam and looked to the adjacent building. A door was swinging open and shut with the wind. I walked over and observed the gap between the buildings. There was a scuff mark and a broken brick on the ledge. The gap was no more than five feet. Someone with the right speed could have jumped it. I walked back over to the bent gutter. A rattling caught my attention. I looked down, and caught on a piece of bent metal, hung a silver ring. I took it into my hand and noticed a Star of David embedded upon the band. Where had I seen this before? It struck me like a brick. The tall man at Lamech's. He had worn this very ring.

***

I made haste towards Lamech's lodgings. I tried the door. It was open. I went inside, slowly, and withdrew my revolver. The rooms were amuck. Tables and chairs overturned, shattered glass scattered everywhere, and torn pieces of cloths. Burgled? No, someone left here in a hurry. I went up to the room where Lamech had died. It, too, had been turned to shambles. No one was there. The entire group of anarchists had vanished.