Death at the Diogenes Club: a Sherlock Holmes and Lucy James Mystery (The Sherlock Holmes and Lucy James Mysteries Book 6), page 24
“Yes.” Susan’s voice wobbled, and she wiped her eyes with her gloved fingertips. “Yes, it came this morning, and this one”—she gulped—“Lucy, this one asked for five thousand pounds.”
I blinked. It was a huge sum. But perhaps not terribly surprising that the blackmailer—Fred Miller, if that was who we were dealing with—had decided to increase his demands. Susan had already shown that she was willing to pay to have her secret remain hidden. He must have decided that he could do better than demand a paltry fifty pounds every month or two.
Susan’s hands shook as she clasped them together in her lap, her words tumbling out faster. “I don’t have that amount of money. I couldn’t possibly come up with that sort of sum, not even if I sell the jewelry Mrs. Teale gave me. Besides, she’d be sure to notice. And Neville isn’t even at home for him to withdraw it from the bank. He’s traveled to a sale of some collection of rare books in York. I don’t know what to do! The note said that the money has to be paid tomorrow, no later than three o’clock—”
Her voice broke.
Telling her not to worry would be pointless, so I said, “I promise we’ll think of some solution. Do you have the letter?”
Susan gulped again, then nodded, opening her reticule. “Yes, I brought it. I have it here.”
She extracted an envelope and handed it to me. I turned it over. The name and address on the outside was printed in rough black capitals with cheap ink. No identifying marks about the envelope; it was of the inexpensive type that could be purchased from dozens of London stationers.
I drew out the single sheet of paper inside. Like the other letters Susan had described, this one was made up of individual letters, cut from newspapers and pasted onto the paper to form words.
“Five thousand pounds at the foot of the William III statue in St. James Square,” I read out loud. “Or else you know what will happen.”
The letters had been cut from copies of the Sentinel and the Times—I recognized the fonts—and pasted down by someone who was right handed. But neither of those two facts seemed likely in any way to be of help.
Susan had started to cry again. She dug through her reticule, clearly searching for the handkerchief that she seemed once more to have forgotten.
“Here.” Becky appeared beside her. “You can have mine.”
Susan jumped a little at the sight of Becky holding out the yellow silk handkerchief she had been using for one of her magic tricks.
“Thank you, sweetheart. That is very nice of you.”
She took the handkerchief and mopped her eyes. Becky watched her, her expression at once sympathetic and concerned.
“Would you like to see a magic trick?” she asked. “I know Lucy and Mr. Holmes will help you with whatever your trouble is. But I could show you how to cut a rope in half and then join up the pieces, if you think it would cheer you up?”
Susan hiccupped a small laugh, blowing her nose. “That is very kind of you. I would love to see your trick.” She smiled at Becky. “It’s a pity that my husband isn’t here. I know he would love to see a magic show too. He once worked as a magician’s assistant himself.”
I sat up, almost dropping the envelope and letter.
I would have sworn that Holmes had been paying absolutely no attention to our conversation. But he, too, straightened, set down the chemistry beaker, and crossed the room in practically a single stride.
“What did you just say?”
Susan looked at Holmes, wide-eyed and a little intimidated by the strange man suddenly looming over her. “I … I just said that my husband … Neville, is his name … once worked as a magician’s assistant. That was how we met. I was on stage at the Savoy and had some friends who performed in the same revue where Neville was in the magician’s act. That was how Neville supported himself—one of the ways—when his father had cut him off. The Great Berlini, that was the magician’s name.” She smiled slightly. “He was famous for his supposedly haunted cabinet. He would have the cabinet brought on stage and show everyone that it was empty, then lock the doors. And when he opened them again, there would be a ghostly face, hovering inside. Neville wasn’t supposed to tell anyone how the trick was done, but he once let it slip to me that—”
She happened to glance at me as she spoke, and her voice faltered as she caught sight of my expression. “Lucy, what is it? Is something wrong?”
“Susan, when—” I stopped, trying to think how to put the question. A cold feeling was spreading through me, making me think I knew the answer already. But I didn’t have any other choice but to ask. “Susan, was Neville at home last night?”
“No.” She shook her head. “No, the sale of books was to start very early this morning, in York, so he took the train up yesterday.”
“You actually saw him get on the train?”
“No, he left the house in a cab that was to take him to the station …” Susan’s gaze searched mine. “Lucy, what is all this about? What’s wrong?”
Holmes was leaning against the mantel, looking down at Susan. For all his earlier talk of being ill-equipped to lend sympathy to the bereaved, his face was oddly gentle as he studied her.
Then he turned to me. “Mr. Teale asked to use the telephone that morning at the Diogenes.”
“You’re right.” I remembered Neville asking whether he might leave the cloakroom to telephone to Susan.
He could have used the opportunity to create the illusion of the ghost upstairs.
“Means and opportunity do not alone make up proof of guilt,” Holmes said quietly. “There would need to be a motive.”
“I know.” My thoughts were already racing, running through everything we knew, everything we had surmised, everything that I had said to Holmes and that Holmes had said—
My thoughts snagged, like fabric catching on an exposed nail as the memory of what Uncle John had said suddenly came back to me.
There is hatred behind this. Hatred and a thirst to cause hurt, perhaps in revenge.
I turned back to Susan. “Where was it Neville was stationed during the short while he spent in the army? His mother spoke of fearing that she would lose him in a foreign war. Was he somewhere overseas?”
“India, I think,” Susan faltered. “He scarcely ever talks of it though.”
A sick, sinking feeling filled me. “Was it—” I tried to remember the name of the place that Mr. Carey had mentioned. “Was it Manipur?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. That might be the place, it sounds familiar.” Susan shook her head, her eyes wide and frightened now, as she looked from me to Holmes, one hand spread over the curve of her middle, as though she were trying to protect the unborn baby inside. “Lucy, what is all of this? Motive for what? What are you talking about?”
I drew in a breath, still feeling sick. There was absolutely no good way to say this.
Holmes surprised me again, coming forward to take Susan’s hand. “Mrs. Teale, you know already of the murder committed on the premises of your husband’s club. You are too intelligent not to draw the obvious conclusion as to the reasoning behind the questions we have just asked.”
“You think that Neville—” Susan drew in a sharp breath, covering her mouth with one hand. “But that’s—”
I thought she was going to argue or say that such a thing was impossible. But instead she stopped and sat completely motionless, her gaze fixed on Holmes’s face. “How sure are you?” she asked at last. Her voice was almost a whisper.
“Sure enough to be causing you the distress of speaking my conclusions out loud—a decision I do not undertake lightly,” Holmes said.
Susan had turned so pale I was afraid she might faint. I took her hand, though I doubted she even felt it or noticed.
“Mrs. Teale.” Holmes’s tone was still gentle, but grave. “Have you any idea where your husband might be now?”
Susan shook her head, one hand at her throat. “No … I … there is his club, of course. But he wouldn’t—” She stopped, shutting her eyes. “I must go home. I must speak with his mother. If what you way is true, she ought to know. She ought to be prepared.”
I wasn’t sure what was worse: telling Neville’s mother of our unproven suspicions or letting her continue in happy ignorance until he was caught.
If he was caught.
“Would you like me to come with you?” I asked.
Susan shook her head. “No. Thank you, Lucy. But I would rather be alone. I had our carriage driver bring me here and then wait. He’s just in the street outside. I shall be quite all right.”
She rose, turning to Becky and trying to smile, though it was shaky. “Thank you again for the loan of your handkerchief, it was very kind. Perhaps you may show me your magic tricks”—her voice trembled—“another day.”
CHAPTER 33
“If we are correct, Lestrade is never going to let me hear the last of this,” Holmes said.
It was true, and in other circumstances, it might have almost been funny. For once, Lestrade might have identified the murder culprit on the very first try.
“Do you think she’ll be safe?” I asked.
I was at the window, watching Susan’s coachman help her climb into the waiting carriage.
“I believe so,” Holmes said. “Her husband has no reason to wish her harm. And if we are correct in our conclusions, his attentions are presently directed elsewhere.”
I felt a chill prickle across my skin.
“Of course. You don’t think he’s done, do you?”
“Hardly.” Holmes paced from one end of the sitting room to the other, his hands clasped behind his back. “We are hypothesizing a personal connection, are we not? A series of crimes carried out in revenge for some grievance that occurred during the Indian uprising in Manipur in—”
Holmes cut off speaking and, in an explosion of movement, strode to a cabinet, seized hold of a leather-bound volume, and began flipping the pages.
Becky watched him, wide-eyed.
“Ah, 1891!” Holmes cried at last. He slammed the book closed, holding it in one hand. “Lord Lansdowne was viceroy of India at that time and, as we know, personally helped deal with putting down the rebellion. General Pettigrew also had a role to play.” He frowned. “It hangs together.” Holmes dropped into a chair and leaned back, lost in thought, his face alert, his expression keen. No one who saw him could doubt that it was in such moments as these that my father came most alive.
He sat forward abruptly, refocusing on me. “Do we know the nature of Mr. Teale’s service in India?”
“Only that he supposedly had some trouble with his commanding officer and was discharged. His mother might know more.”
“She might. However, a trip to interview her would cost valuable time—time in which Mr. Teale might choose to strike. He has tried already to murder Lord Lansdowne twice: once by the bomb sent to these premises and once at the ball. We also know that he has in his possession a considerable quantity of gunpowder, as well as a machine gun. I do not believe he will hesitate to use both for destructive purposes. The question is where and when he will make his next strike.”
“There’s Lansdowne House, of course,” I said. “If Neville snuck in the night of the ball to set up the slide projector and frame Dimitrios for murder, maybe could he have also smuggled in the gunpowder to create a bomb?”
Holmes shook his head. “If that were the case, why not set it off the night of the ball?”
Holmes was right. We were missing something.
“Lucy?” Becky had come to stand beside me. “What about the ghost?”
“What about it?”
“You told me that the charwoman said her supply cupboard was haunted. But why a closet? Why make the ghost appear in there? Why not a bedroom or somewhere, I don’t know, more eerie?” She wrinkled her nose in disapproval. “A broom closet isn’t very frightening.”
“It would make a terrible title for a gothic horror story,” I agreed. “The mystery of the haunted mops and brooms. But then, I suppose a closet would be dark and easy to make the ghost look—” I stopped, looking at Becky and shaking my head slowly. “No. No, you’re right. That is twice today that you’ve proven you’re a genius.”
“Really?”
I pressed my fingers to my temples, trying to think.
I could hear Mrs. Mudge, swearing she would no longer go anywhere near her upstairs cleaning cupboard. Something else was nagging at my memory too. Something connected to the club or to Neville—
I looked up at Holmes. “Guy Fawkes.”
Holmes looked at me with raised eyebrows.
“When I saw him, Neville was reading a book about the reign of King James I. My knowledge of seventeenth-century history is hazy, but what I do remember about his reign is that—”
“—Guy Fawkes famously attempted to blow up the House of Lords.” Holmes finished for me. He looked grim. “Gunpowder, treason, and plot. With an emphasis on the gunpowder.”
We stared at each other for a beat. “Parliament?” I said. “Do you think he’s going to try to replicate the Guy Fawkes gunpowder plot?”
Holmes shook his head slowly. “No. Not Parliament. Working backwards, Parliament might have been indirectly responsible for the political climate in India which led to the Manipur rebellion. But Mr. Teale’s anger is more likely to be directed at—”
Holmes cut off speaking abruptly and strode to the door.
“We must go.” He was already shrugging into his overcoat, unwinding a scarf from the hat stand.
I crouched down by Becky, looking into her face. “I’m not just trying to protect you by saying that you can’t come along right now. I need you to do something for me, something very important. First, I need you to telephone Dr. Watson at his clinic. Then telephone to Lestrade at Scotland Yard. Mrs. Hudson has both the numbers. Tell them both to come to the Diogenes Club. Can you do that?”
Becky’s lower lip trembled, then firmed. “Yes. I’ll do it.” She hugged me. “Just, please be careful, Lucy. Don’t die out there.”
CHAPTER 34
“Nothing!” Holmes made a sharp sound of disgust as he stared at the interior of the second-floor broom cupboard.
It wasn’t actually empty; there were the expected assortment of mops, buckets, and brooms. But there was nothing to give us any indication—
“Wait a moment.” I leaned forward, crouching down to examine the faint marks on the floor that had just caught my attention. “Does it look to you as though—”
“—a rectangular object was stored here,” Holmes finished for me. His hands marked off the space indicated by the lines of dust on the floor. “Unless I am much mistaken, a wooden box matching the precise dimensions of the case used for shipping a Maxim machine gun and its mount.”
Tension knotted my insides. “The question is, though, where is it now?”
All around us, Lestrade and his officers were making an exhaustive search of the Diogenes Club, though they had already gone room to room and found no sign either of Neville Teale or a bomb.
As a precaution, the club members had already been evacuated and, save for low murmurs and the occasional tramp of police feet, the place had an eerily deserted feel that felt almost tomb-like.
There was a small, narrow window at the end of the hallway beside the cupboard. I went over, drumming my fingers against the windowpane as I looked down into the heavy street and pedestrian traffic of Pall Mall below.
Carriages, lady shoppers in wide hats and elegant fur muffs, businessmen in overcoats and dark suits …
A tall man in a black frock coat and top hat approached the club entrance, swinging his cane as he strode along. I tensed, but he passed by, heading in the direction of Carleton House.
Not Neville Teale.
I could see the War Office building outside the club window now: a stately, rectangular brick building, without any of the neoclassical touches that graced most of the clubs and buildings on Pall Mall.
The War Office was also being quietly evacuated, while teams of Lestrade’s police officers went through the building, starting from the basement up, in search of any gunpowder or bombs.
But so far—as far as we had heard—they had found nothing at all.
I thought Holmes was handling the strain of waiting better than I was, until he said, in a voice tense with concentration, “We are assuming that Teale’s target will be the War Office. Lord Lansdowne was viceroy of India during Neville Teale’s time there and, in addition, he now serves as Secretary of War.”
I couldn’t find flaw in any of our reasoning. But all the same, my skin was still crawling with the feeling that we could be doing more … or that there was some clue we had overlooked—
At least Becky had actually kept her word about staying home with Mrs. Hudson. I telephoned back to Baker Street on our arrival here, and Mrs. Hudson had promised me that Becky was with her and safe. For once, I didn’t have to be worried about her and Jack—
My thought broke and snapped off, my heart lurching at the sight of a figure in the street below: dark hair, straight shoulders, lean, hard-muscled frame.
No. No, no, no.
Jack shouldn’t be anywhere near here.
He was, though. Even if I hadn’t known his face as well as I knew my own, I would have recognized the slight unevenness of his gate as he walked down the street.
He was directly in front of the War Office. Right where he would be in the line of fire if Neville Teale set off an explosion or fired a weapon or—
I gasped. Jack had stopped walking and was frowning up at one of the lampposts that lined the street.
I could almost feel a tangible snap as the missing pieces rose to the surface inside my mind, and then realization—the same realization that must have struck Jack—hit me with the force of an oncoming train.
“Pall Mall. That’s Pall Mall out there!”
Holmes looked at me, brows raised. “Are we stating the obvious? Because if so, we are also in London. The earth, as Watson kindly informs me, orbits the sun, and—”
