Sherlock Holmes and The Scarlet Thread of Murder (10 page)

“Very well,” said Lestrade, leery.

“Mr Reid, would you tell us your part in this tale?” Hewitt asked.

While I looked over the corpse, Reid recounted his tale from the day of the explosion through to its climactic dead end when one of Lamech's men committed suicide on the Thames.

“The other murders seemed to feature that poison you spoke of, from the fire-flower. I'm not seeing any similar signs here,” White said as we looked over the body.

“Neither do I, no,” I returned. “But most of the signs are revealed upon the face. This has been quite badly mutilated. As if some beast had its way with him.”

“A hound perhaps?” said White, “I've seen mutilations like this before, and I'd say a large dog did this.”

“It's possible, yes,” I returned with a nod.

“Looks like someone took a blunt instrument to the left side of his head,” said White pointing. “There is quite a severe indentation here. So after the dogs, someone bashed him over the head and threw him in the Thames,” White finished his speculation.

I looked at the wound. His head had certainly taken a tremendous blow.

“But look here,” said I, “these bruises on his shoulders; hand prints. And here, these bruises look like fingerprints at the top of his forehead, just barely visible on his hairline. It suggests he was forcibly drowned. Open the man up, and his lungs will likely reveal that outcome. Why crack someone over the head after drowning them? Or why feed them to a dog?”

“The water has, unfortunately, washed away any evidence,” said Sherlock Holmes, “and one should never theorise without facts.” He, Hewitt, and Reid approached the body.

White withdrew a magnifying glass and examined Jackson's forehead.

“There are indentation around the fingerprint markings. Sharp fingernails peeled the skin here.”

“From the body's current state, he must have been in the water for four hours,” said Hewitt.

“Where is the autopsy report, Lestrade?” Reid asked.

“We've not done it yet,” he admitted. “Our surgeon has been away on another case.”

“The dazzling ineptitude of Scotland Yard,” tutted Holmes.”Unfortunately, Mr Hewitt, I see another story. I'll need to be left alone as I gather more data from our cadaver.”

“Holmes, you know I can't let you do that,” said Lestrade. “This isn't Bart's where you can just walk in and take your pick of dead specimens and inflict your own unique scientific experimentation.”

“Then I'll stay,” said I. “You've used my consultations in the past.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes.

“There's little to be gained from arguing with you.”

The door suddenly burst open.

“I need your help, Doctor Watson!” It was Brett. He was panting. “I've got Mrs Goodtree, but she's in a bad state. Burning with fever and bursting out in fits of hysteria!”

“Carry on, Watson,” said Holmes.

“What about this?” I asked.

“I can help, if the Doctor wishes to say?” offered White.

“I'd rather a proper Doctor,” Brett said with a sharp tone.

“Help Holmes, I'll go,” said I looking at White. He nodded back at me and Brett hurried me out the room.

***

I could hear Lestrade instructing Holmes and White to be careful and to remember on whose behalf they were working as we ran down the hall.

“Mrs Goodtree is greatly disturbed,” Brett said. “Her house was in utter shambles and her husband's study a wreck. She kept saying that she “lost it”. I think she went mad and destroyed the study. I was taken aback by her appearance and crazed actions.”

Mrs Goodtree lay on a cot in an empty room. Her forehead was burning, and her body trembled. Her pulse was racing. Brett showed me the marks on her arm. I confirmed it to be from the use of cocaine. I called for some cool water and a towel. Her nightgown was drenched with sweat. I removed it and covered the woman with a coarse grey blanket. Hanging on a chain around her neck was a silver pendent, which I also removed. An officer came in with cool water and a rag, and I laid the soaked rag upon Mrs Goodtree's head. I left the room to gather some equipment from the police surgeon's chambers, then returned and continued my examination.

“What can you tell me about this woman?” I asked Brett.

“I know little of her,” he replied.

“She told you nothing of importance when she was with you and Hewitt?” I asked sharply.

Brett's eyes lit with realisation, but it was too late. I had worked it out already.

“She was...” he began.

“With child,” I finished.

Brett nodded, his face grimaced.

“Has she...”

“Lost it? Yes, she has,” I confirmed. Brett lifted the blanket and we looked at her discoloured stomach. “She's bleeding from within. She won't last much longer.”

Lestrade and Reid walked in in time to hear the news. Lestrade put his face in his hands and sighed. Pulling his hands away from his face a look of intrigue fell upon Reid's face. He walked over to the dying woman and gazed upon her.

“This woman, Mrs Goodtree, I know her,” he said thoughtfully.

“Of course you do. She was in the papers when her husband died. He was a well-known chap,” said Lestrade. “And, as you remember, I questioned her.”

“I knew her name but I never saw her face, Lestrade,” said Reid. “No, I knew her from somewhere else. Somewhere else...” Reid looked at the woman's clothing. “This was this on her?” he asked, picking up the pendent and opening it.

“It was, yes,” I confirmed.

“Aha! See? A picture of a crown, I thought it most odd when I first saw it. She was one of the many I helped out of the Whitechapel & Mile End station,” said Reid. “This woman embraced me when I led her out and this very pendent fell from her neck.”

“That's impossible, Reid!” said Lestrade. “I questioned the woman myself. She was at home during the explosion!”

“The man is correct,” came the faint voice of Mrs Goodtree.

“Dear woman, rest,” said I. “Lestrade, take this ruckus elsewhere!”

“No, I need to... I need to speak,” said the dying woman. “I don't wish to go to hell.” The woman looked upon me with horror.

“Which of us is correct?” Lestrade asked.

“He is,” she returned, looking at Reid. She groaned, her face twitching with pain. “I was there. Jack... Jackson... he promised a better life after it was... over.”

“Was Jackson responsible for the explosion? Can you confirm it was he who planted the bomb?” Reid demanded.

“Thomas and David, they were... vile. We were... we were doing the world a service by being... being rid of them.”

“Who is ‘we'?” Lestrade demanded.

“Mrs Goodtree,” said Brett softly. He walked over and knelt down by her. “What sin is it that you seek repentance for?” She looked at him. Her eyes began to drift shut. “Mrs Goodtree. You came to Hewitt and I to find Phillias Jackson, and we have found him.” Her eyes opened, and a glimpse of life returned to her. “What is your sin?”

“Where is Jackson?” she asked, “I am his... his queen, you know.”

“You are now a queen without a king. Jackson is dead,” Brett informed her.

Tears welled in her eyes. “Dead?” she asked painfully.

“Tell us, Mrs Goodtree, what is your sin?”

“Murder...” She trailed off. Her eyes closed, and her head slumped to one side. I checked her pulse, but it had gone. Mrs Goodtree had died.

Hewitt came into the room and saw the grim scene.

“Oh dear, what a terrible shame,” he said, looking at the lifeless body.

“It is as if the universe is orchestrating against us with this case. A door opens then shuts as we approach!” said Reid bitterly.

“We know all we need to know,” said Lestrade.

Reid looked at him with disdain. He rushed upon the Inspector who backed up against the wall.

“You above all should see your tremendous blunder, Lestrade!” shouted Reid. “It was you who questioned Mrs Goodtree! The rat was in your cage and you let it go!”

“Are you telling me that there was no way someone who was in that explosion could have slipped out? We gathered as many names as we could. We cross-referenced and interrogated dozens and dozens of people! She had a solid story, there was no reason, no link that connected her presence at the explosion!”

“Apart from yours, Mr Reid,” said Brett. Reid turned an angry eye towards Brett.

“At the end of the day,” came the voice of Hewitt. The Investigator stepped into the room. “We could pass blame until we are blue in the face. We must now decide what our next action will be.”

“What of Holmes and White?” I asked.

“They continue their work on the unknown body,” said Hewitt.

“Unknown?” questioned Lestrade.

“Yes, correct, that man on that slab is not Phillias Jackson.”

Chapter 16

Doctor Watson

The Problem With The Body

Autumn 1890

“Explain yourself, Mr Hewitt!” Lestrade demanded.

“It's quite simple, really. I looked over the body and determined that it was, in fact, not the body of Phillias Jackson.”

“Yes, but how?” Reid asked.

“When our poor woman here came to enquire about our services in locating Mr Jackson, she informed us that he had a mole on the right side of his face...”

“Which we saw! After a mutilation like that, we were lucky to find that clue,” said Lestrade.

“You found a man with dark hair, whiskers, and a mole. What you didn't find was a man with dark hair, whiskers, a mole, and a scar upon the index finger of his right hand.”

“A scar?” Lestrade questioned.

“Indeed. Mrs Goodtree told us of his scar. That body does not have one, ergo it is not our man. He still runs free.”

“Then he made it to the continent?” I questioned. “If that is the case, then he is utterly lost to us. By this time he could be deep in hiding.”

“All might not be lost,” said Brett. “I found this in Mr Goodtree's study.” He withdrew a letter and a card.

“The Liberal Club? What's this?” Reid questioned.

“I've not heard of it, at all,” said Brett.

“Fortunately I have,” said Holmes. He and White entered the room.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I'm not entirely sure,” Holmes admitted.

“I thought you knew about it?” Lestrade questioned.

“Did I say I did? I said I've heard of it. They are a tight-lipped club, and membership is nigh impossible to obtain.”

“Have a look at this,” Reid said, handing Holmes the letter.

“So Daniels, Goodtree, and Jackson were all there. Two of these three are dead, and Jackson is missing,” said Holmes. “What happened to Mrs Goodtree?”

“Miscarriage, Holmes. Bled to death from the inside,” said I. “She did confess to a sin, and not that of infidelity. She confessed to murder. She also said her husband and Daniels were vile and she was doing the world a service by ridding us of them.” A look of distress came over Holmes' face.

“Inspector Lestrade?” said an officer. “We have a lawyer here with regard to Daniels, his will, and the business. He said he must speak with you at once.”

“Very well. I'll be there in a moment.” The officer nodded and departed. “You work out the next move while I see to this.”

“May I accompany you?” Reid asked. Lestrade looked unsure. “I beg you, forgive my words earlier. We are working together, not against each other.”

“Come then,” said Lestrade, and the two men departed.

***

Holmes led the five of us into an empty cell. Hewitt took a seat on the stone bench, White leaned through the bars looking in, Brett and I stood with our backs to the wall facing White, and Holmes stood opposite Hewitt.

“In some way or another, little things have slipped by during the course of this investigation,” began Holmes. “Whether that be Reid and Lestrade's blunder with regards to Mrs Goodtree, or perhaps your mistake at Jackson's lodging in Putney, Mr Hewitt-”

“My mistake,” Hewitt cried.

Holmes withdrew a card from his pocket and handed it to him.

“Jackson has departed for the continent. This was left in his rooms. There is only one explanation.” Hewitt looked at the card, his eyebrow arched. A look of realisation befell him, “You understand?” Holmes confirmed.

“I do.”

“Mind sharing this understanding with the class?” White asked, pulling his glasses off and biting the arm.

“In time, we shall,” Hewitt said. White rolled his eyes.

“According to Jackson's landlord, he's been out of the country for about three months,” said Holmes.

“Mrs Goodtree also gave us a similar timeframe.”

“That means the last time Jackson was seen was the night before the explosion at the Whitechapel Underground station with Lemach,” said White.

“He arranged the explosion, and left for the continent to avoid suspicion, or perhaps lay blame on Mrs Goodtree?” I asked.

“I think not, Watson,” said Holmes. “Had he wanted her to be the scapegoat she would have been snared long ago. Another game is afoot.”

“But the Goblin outfit that was found among his possessions. It was he who tormented Daniels, poisoned and killed him,” said Brett.

Holmes took an envelope from another pocket.

“While you were talking back in the shed, I found several long strands of hair in the goblin mask.” Holmes withdrew them and held them near a light. “These hairs do not correlate with Mrs Goodtree. One can't be sure that they are female. But it does imply someone with long hair had worn the mask recently.”

“Jackson had an accomplice,” said White.

“And what of the body?” I asked.

“Someone wanted us to think Jackson was dead,” said Hewitt.

“The body here wasn't drowned in the Thames. As you noticed, Watson, the bruises on the shoulders and the marks on the forehead indicate he was forcibly drowned. Then he was mutilated to disguise his face. The markings, as White observed, indicate that it was done by an animal. It is here our trail ends with a murder confession from Mrs Goodtree on her deathbed,” finished Holmes.

“What's next?” Brett asked.

“Two, possibly three, things must be investigated at once. The Peckham Liberal Club and Mr Goodtree's study,” said Hewitt.

“What's the third?” I asked.

“That will be left with me,” said Hewitt. “I must depart at once. I shan't be gone longer than one week.”

“A week!” Brett exclaimed. “Where are you going?”

“The less you know the better,” he returned. “I want you to stay here and accompany Mr Holmes and Reid. They'll need you more than I at this stage.” Brett looked confused and irritated by the lack of information. His partnership with Hewitt was different to that of Holmes's and I. I, however, was used to Holmes and his vague responses.

“There is no time to lose,” said Holmes. Hewitt rose at once and quickly left the cell. “Brett, if you and White will remain here and await Reid, Watson and I will be off at once to the Goodtree residence. I need to have a look around. My instruction to you is to look into the Liberal Club. See what you can find, and try to shed some light upon that letter.”

Chapter 17

Doctor Watson

The House of Mr Goodtree

Autumn 1890

It was drawing near midnight when Holmes and I arrived at Mr Goodtree's residence just near Primrose Hill. Brett had informed us of the open window around the back, which we used to gain entrance.

Holmes lit a lamp and I followed him through the dark house. Brett's report was accurate; the house was in a terrible state. We creaked up the stairs and found the study in shambles. Holmes examined the room. He looked over the desk where liquor bottles were toppled and smashed.

“I'll look around a bit more,” I told Holmes, but he did not respond.

I ventured forward towards the room which I assumed had been where Brett retrieved Mrs Goodtree. I held a light over her bed and pulled the covers off. To my horror, there was a large spot of dried blood on the sheets and a metallic smell in the air. The blood trailed off the bed and onto the floor. On one side of the bed was evidence of cocaine use, the other a bundle of stiff, bloody, rags which has turned brown. I followed the blood through another door and down a back stair. The trail led into a toilet where the evidence of Mrs Goodtree's miscarriage remained. My heart hung heavy with what was before me.

“Watson?” called Holmes.

“I'm down here,” I called back.

“Your assistance, if you please,” he answered. I made my way back to the study where Holmes stood. “What do you make of this room?”

“It's a mess. After what Brett had said about Mrs Goodtree's actions, it is possible that she did this to the room in a fit of rage.”

“There is something yet more telling,” said Holmes.

“What is that?”

“Dust!” he exclaimed. “Dust is elegant! The room is covered in it, and it tells me a story.”

“That being?” I questioned, feeling somewhat impatient as my mind thought upon the macabre scene of downstairs.

“No one has been in this room for some time, near three months, I would hazard. The desk itself is in a state of disorganisation, but not like the rest of the room. Papers have been arranged in an attempt to re-order them, so the desk was more important than the books and other clutter. Brett found that letter in the bin here, and the card upon the desk. Now, why was the letter tossed aside? Unlike the other papers in the bin, this is the only one which remained unwrinkled. Here, on the desk,” Holmes picked something up, “is an empty envelope” which he showed me excitedly, “which was postmarked 18
th
of July. That is roughly three months ago, just a few days before the Whitechapel explosion, and not long after Jackson was fired and his mysterious departure for the continent.”

“Where are you going with this, Holmes?”

“Somewhere quite important, I assure you,” said he. “See there, on the door frame, a brown smudge?”

“I do, yes.”

“How high would you place it?”

“Around six feet,” I returned.

“Now, I noticed these broken shards of glass, and kicked under the sofa, here, was this one,” Holmes pointed to a large shard which lay upon a table. A residue had dried upon it.There was not mistaking it; dried blood.

“Jackson is said to be around six foot,” said I. A moment of realisation befell me, “Aha! He and Goodtree got into a brawl, and tore up the room. Goodtree then cut Jackson's face quite severely. So Jackson is the scarred man that was seen with Lamech the night before he died and the Whitechapel explosion!”

“Well done, Watson!“ said Holmes cheerfully.

“But what was Jackson doing here? And why hadn't Mrs Goodtree spoken of this incident? She told Hewitt there was no tension at all,” said I.

“Think it through, Watson. You make great strides in your deductions only to hurdle yourself backwards,” scolded Holmes. “Mrs Goodtree wanted Jackson safely returned to her so they could live out their dreams. Had she spoken of ill feelings, it would have aroused suspicion.”

I nodded in agreement with my friend.

“Still, why was he here?” I asked.

“That, I shouldn't wonder, has something to do with that letter from the Liberal Club.”

“We can only hope Brett and the others have made a positive headway in that regards.”

“Let us return to the Yard and await their return,” said Holmes.

“What about Baker Street? We could do with a bit of rest.”

“We will rest at the Yard.”

***

The night air was cold. The moon hung in the middle of the sky, a thin cloud-cover danced before it in swirls. Its silver illumination shone down upon the city as we rattled back to the Yard. Holmes sat in quiet contemplation.

“Where is Hewitt going?” I asked hesitantly, breaking my companion's concentration.

“He is looking into a matter for us. Something I've speculated since we first arrived at Jackson's lodgings, but until Hewitt returns with solid data I don't want to entertain the theory.”

“Why are you keeping me in the dark?” said I in a raised tone.

“We have a larger team working with us, Watson. Each step we make must be made with caution rather than throwing around every speculation. Do not take it personally. It is for everyone's protection,” Holmes assured.

Agitated by my friend's response, I turned the other way and crossed my arms. We sat in silence, my grand gift to my companion, for the remainder of our trip to the Yard.

Chapter 18

D.I. Edmund Reid

The Lawyer & The Liberal Club

Autumn 1890

With Holmes, Watson, and Hewitt following other threads, I, along with Mr White and Brett, needed to begin our hunt for information regarding the Liberal Club. We waited for Lestrade, who was in his office speaking with Daniels' lawyer.

A short round man with a large top hat emerged from Lestrade's office. A leather folder was in his hands. I looked in on Lestrade. His face was planted in his hands.

“A word?” I asked.

“Come in, take a seat,” he said. I sat across from him, White took a seat along the wall, and Brett remained standing.

“Anything important from the lawyer?” I asked.

“No, nothing really. There is something in Daniels' will that entrusts the company to another. He needed to discuss it,” he returned.

“Have you any information regarding the Liberal Club in Peckham?” I asked.

Lestrade leaned back and stroked his chin: “Can't say I've heard of it.”

Brett proceeded to tell him what he had found in Mrs Goodtree's home regarding the club, and Holmes's command to investigate further while he and Hewitt saw to other matters. When Brett had finished, Lestrade let out a deep sigh.

“I have a certain revulsion for these London clubs,” said Lestrade. “They cause more drama than they're worth. There always seems to be some chap who has done something to upset
the order
, but of course
the order
responds with a lashing against any who upset them.”

“I agree,” said White. “I've been kicked out of most clubs in London.” He smirked.

“Can't imagine why” Brett muttered sarcastically.

“Son, if I had to tell you that, I would likely be slapped in irons and locked behind bars.”

Lestrade gave him a perturbed look.

“Maybe you should be,” Brett sneered.

“Ignore my man, Lestrade,” said I moving the conversation on. This was no time for a petty quibble, and whatever was between Brett and White could wait.