A Study in Murder, page 28
‘Both hands for him. Zwei.’
He did as he was told. ‘Now the feet.’
‘Where is the young one?’ the guard asked as he snapped the cuffs on.
Watson took a moment to appreciate he meant the other guard, Fingerless.
‘The one who killed my friend Sayer?’
Gunther’s features sagged, like melting wax. ‘Orders.’
Watson nodded. He supposed it was. ‘I could gag both of you now. But I doubt anyone will hear you shouting through this snow. If I hear you, however, I’ll come back and shoot you both. No matter who is doing the shouting. Stay quiet, stay calm, you’ll see tomorrow. Is that understood?’ His head was swimming as he spoke. Making the threats and keeping his face looking as if he meant them was an exhausting business.
‘Ja,’ said Gunther.
‘Tell him.’
There was a burst of rapid German and the driver, apparently still dazed from being coshed with the handle of the Luger, nodded woozily.
Watson turned to face the night, and flakes that had grown to almost saucer-size, and set off into the darkness, the yellow, pencil beam of light guiding him towards the escarpment at the rear of the camp. He examined the surface of the fallen snow as he went, but it was smooth and untrammelled. Nobody had walked this way recently. This was all a huge gamble. But he couldn’t leave the camp without knowing the truth. Steigler had taunted him that he knew nothing. But he knew this – there was some way into the tunnels that linked the rec room with the isolation hut. Peacock had told him that. He had said he had seen freedom, smelled it. You didn’t get the scent of liberty behind wire or underground. So there had to be some way out of the camp. And the most likely way was through some old gold workings.
Gold was the answer, his inner voice had told him. But he had assumed that meant it was about the precious metal – the very embodiment of human greed. But somewhere deep in his unconscious he had known that there were other elements to the extraction of gold. Cyanide, for one. An easy way to kill three men when you knew they drank the camp liquor in a ritual toast. Steigler had given him the jar of alcohol to test, but he only had the doctor’s word for it being the self-same liquid the men had drunk. He was beginning to think the doctor’s word was worse than worthless.
And the second was—
A firework went off in his cranium and his heart thumped in his chest in excitement at what was before him. The beam was shining not on rock, but on wood, albeit wood painted to look like rock at a casual glance. This was it; this was the entrance to the tunnels. He looked back over his shoulder towards the lorry, but it was lost in the backdrop to the white speckled world that had enveloped him.
Watson put the torch down on the snow and used chilled fingers to explore the wooden panel before him. It was not a door. There was no sign of hinges. It appeared to be simply placed against the smooth face of rock. Yet no amount of pulling would shift it one way or another. The ends of his fingers, already raw from the skin loss, began to bleed after a few minutes of exploring every crack and crevice around the periphery of the barrier. Despite the cold he was sweating and breathing was painful, the air sharp in his lungs and his bad knee ached – he had left his walking staff pinned through the young German guard.
Energy drained from him like water from a punctured canister, pooling at his feet, so that he felt like an empty vessel. Which he was, an old hollow man, jousting at windmills, without even a Sancho Panza for support.
You have me, Watson.
No, I don’t Holmes, you’re not you. You are a mere vocal simulacrum of you. I thank you for being there. You have helped keep me sane. Even offered decent advice. But you aren’t flesh and blood. You aren’t real.
He turned, put his back to the wooden façade and allowed himself to slide down, so his buttocks were in the snow, his knees to his chest. He wasn’t strong enough to break down the panel. Perhaps if he could get the lorry closer, he could pull the door off with ropes. But how could he manage that? It had thumped into a rock or a fallen log under the snow. It was stuck and probably damaged.
Alarmingly, he knew now in his heart that the game was up. He was quite done in. It was remarkable he had kept going this long. He wanted to keel over and lie down, feel the crisp snow against his cheek, let it wick the warmth out of him, surrender to the—
Shush!
—surrender to the embrace of cold earth and endless oblivion.
Will you be quiet! Listen.
Watson did, but all he could hear was the moan of a sly wind. There was nothing out there.
Watson, sometimes, you really do test my patience. Not out there. Behind you.
Watson turned his head, so that one red and raw ear pressed against the painted planks. Sure enough he could hear something – a man coughing and spluttering. Hawking in the throat. And then, footsteps. Followed by a snatch of conversation, low enough to make the words a mere rumble, but human voices all the same. There was only one conclusion to draw.
Someone was coming up the tunnel to the outside world. And the moment they opened the hatch, they would see from the churned snow that he had been there.
FORTY-NINE
From his table in the front corner of the working men’s café, Sherlock Holmes had a perfect view of the Knok bridge that spanned the Meuse. All he had to do was casually wipe away the steam on the windowpane with his sleeve and there it was. The crossing was an ugly beast, he thought, practical but unlovely, with irregular and unharmonious metalwork, hinged in the middle, supported by a four-square, plain slab of concrete that rose from mid-stream. Nobody had put any care or affection into it; he doubted those who had constructed it were particularly proud of their handiwork or gave it a second thought.
During his coffee-fuelled shift in the café, Holmes had seen bankside activity on both sides of the span. A film crew checking angles and the light on the German side. Mrs Gregson striding about, trying to look nonchalant and disinterested, yet clearly taking the measure of the location. With her a man he couldn’t place, but when he got out of the car to open the door, he got a good look at him. Military, colonial, but not in uniform. One of Kell’s? What was that about? Mrs Gregson’s loyalties and affections were clear. But the man? A lover? No, they were not familiar enough with each other. A suitor? Ah, now possibly. Was Mrs Gregson using her feminine charms on him? Shame on her! He laughed to himself, imagining her bluster when he accused her of undermining her suffragette principles.
And what was he to make of the others who drove by three times in an hour in a Ford? Three men, one slouched in the rear as if trying to hide. Not Dutch, judging by the clothes. English, or at least British. Civilians, but he could tell the pair in the front were servicemen in mufti, one a senior officer to the other, judging by the interactions he had witnessed.
And then there was the little tug that scooted up and down the German side of the river, back and forth, back and forth, never with a load in tow. What to make of its mindless wanderings? Or was conjecture on that a step too far? Perhaps it had simply been a tug.
Where was Mycroft in all that activity? He was sure he would be in there somewhere. Because he would have found out that his brother had been less than forthright with him. And when he discovered what he was planning, surely Mycroft would try to stop him sacrificing himself for his friend.
Is that what he was doing? After a fashion, he supposed. Von Bork and others would try to break him, that much was certain. But he doubted it would be purely physical coercion. That would be counterproductive. Parading a broken, abused Holmes before the world, slack-jawed and dead-eyed, would have no currency whatsoever. They had to be cleverer than that. Which meant they had to be cleverer than he.
Was this hubris? There was a time when he would have wagered his intellect against any man, saving perhaps Mycroft in his pomp. But he was well aware that his faculties had faded, although they were sharper than they had been in those months of despair before Watson had diagnosed that there was a physical cause to his decline.
No, he was confident, but not over-confident, that he could if not best the Germans, then thwart them. And if not? He was prepared for that. Secreted about his body, in a manner that would fool even the most fastidious of searchers, was the poison. To the casual observer it looked as if the toenails on his feet had coarsened, thickened, ridged and yellowed with age. But the nails of both big toes were false, the cement holding them on impregnated with the poison itself. It would be like licking a stamp, albeit a rather unsavoury one, perhaps, but it would be quick and Hua, the Chinese doctor and herbalist in Limehouse he met around the time of the ‘Twisted Lip’ adventure, had assured him it would be relatively painless. Although, as Hua admitted, he could hardly guarantee that, and Holmes would be in no position to ask for a refund. He rather liked Hua’s sense of humour.
So, all was set. He had even clapped eyes on Von Bork, although as he had intended, the German had not recognized him. The man had filled out from the well-toned sportsman Holmes had known. But his eyes were bright, alert and hungry. Hungry, Holmes appreciated, for revenge.
There was just one thing in this complex intermeshing of scenarios that puzzled him. One piece missing that was skewing the balance, the one that was at the very heart of all this activity. Where on earth was Watson?
FIFTY
Watson scurried away from the panel as the voices approached it. He retreated seven or eight paces then flattened himself against the surface of the genuine rock face. The snowfall was thick enough that he would be hard to spot, but the traces of his movement on the ground were unmistakable. He double-checked that the safety catch of the Luger was off.
There came the squeak of wood moving over wood. The rotating pegs that held the panel – or some such device – were being turned. The top moved outwards, while the bottom stayed in place. A thin light spilled out from the sides of the opening and he felt horribly exposed, but he couldn’t move now.
There came the sound of heavy, forced breathing and coughing.
‘Jesus Christ, I got a faceful of that.’ Another huge intake of breath. ‘I think I’ve burned my lungs.’
‘Go outside.’
‘Are you kidding? Have you seen it out there? Bloody snowing like Christmas. We need gas masks.’
‘Ach, no we don’t, we won’t be doing this much longer. As Link said, time to shut it down. Mustn’t get too greedy.’
A bitter laugh.
‘What?’
‘I didn’t think Link knew there was such a thing as too greedy.’ Another wheeze. ‘OK, let’s get this over with.’
The panel moved again, a few inches back towards closing. ‘Give me a hand here.’
‘No, leave it. Get some fresh air in the tunnels m’be. Ma eyes are stingin’ too. We’ll close it afterwards.’
Footsteps echoed off rock walls as the pair retreated. Watson couldn’t quite believe his ears. Boxhall, the man who made the coffins and had damaged his lungs, yes. But the other? The accent was unmistakable. Hardie, the Scottish priest, had been in on it too.
Watson spent what seemed like a long time pondering his options, but in truth there was only one. With the Luger tucked in the top of his trousers – safety back on – he approached the wooden entrance cover and levered it open, inch by careful inch, wincing at every squeak and groan it made. Eventually he had created enough of a gap for him to step through into the dank chill of the old mine. He pulled the panel back up to roughly where it had been, the weight of snow at the base helping keep it in position.
He looked up the tunnel. This section was lit by a string of small electric bulbs, which gave a feeble illumination. He risked switching on his torch for a few seconds and was gratified to see a curve to the walls, which meant he was probably invisible to Boxhall and Hardie for the moment, who were up around the bend. The floor was dusty but flat and quite even. The pattern of holes and markings suggested there had once been a narrow-gauge railway running into the hillside, but that had probably been torn up for scrap or possibly reuse in a working seam.
He turned off the torch and pocketed it, then reactivated the Luger with a flick of his thumb. Quite what he intended to do he wasn’t sure but he was aware of one thing – the death they had in store for Cocky, if he still lived, was hideous in the extreme. He couldn’t not act with the burden of that knowledge.
You are a good man, Watson.
Or a bloody fool.
The floor rose gently as he walked and he, too, felt something attack his eyes and sinuses. His tongue tasted metal in the air and prickled when he swallowed. Watson rummaged in his pockets and found a handkerchief, which he tied around his face, like a highwayman of old. It wasn’t much, but it helped a little.
Oh, how he wished Holmes was with him. He would not only know what was ahead but would have worked out a strategy. Watson had no plan. He would have to decide moment by moment. But how many people were up ahead in the gloom? How many would one old man with a pistol and a limp have to face down? He paused and the chill of the mine settled around him like a damp blanket. That was when he noticed that he was shivering. And it wasn’t entirely due to the cold.
A cough and a few words spliced from a conversation rolled slowly down the mine workings towards him, growing fuzzy and incoherent as they came. How far around that bend? Ten yards? A hundred? Perhaps more. He had no way of judging.
Watson waited until the worst of the shivers had subsided. If this was to be his end, then it would be death in a noble cause. Not a blaze of glory, perhaps, but a blaze of gunfire.
He took a deep breath and, crouched just below the string of lights, he started forward at a determined pace. The ground rose again, taking him closer to the surface but within a hundred yards the slope had all but disappeared. He was moving over even ground as quietly as he could manage, but, careful of his knee, he was favouring one leg slightly and dragging the other. To his ears the rhythm of his footfall sounded like the boom of a bass drum followed by the slide of cymbals. He only hoped the men ahead were too busy to notice they had a marching band coming their way.
On his right there was a series of side-tunnels, all dark, the blackness swirling within. He wondered where they led. Deeper into the earth, no doubt, as the miners struggled to extract more and more gold as the gilded seams near the surface petered out.
As he rounded a sharp bend the fumes became stronger and he had to press the handkerchief to his mouth, although it could do little to help with the moisture streaming from his eyes. He fought the urge to cough and splutter. Thanks to the occasional oil lamp the light was stronger here, and ahead, their outlines blurred by his tears, he could see Boxhall and Hardie, standing at the top of another small rise, busy admiring their handiwork. They were alone. In the wall next to him he could see the metal rungs that led up to the isolation hut, but the hatch up there was closed. If his calculations were correct, the two men were actually standing right under the graveyard.
Watson stood fully upright, pulled down the kerchief, puffed out his chest and hailed them with a confidence he did not feel.
‘Stay where you are and put your hands up.’
The two men turned and looked at him. Neither showed any inclination to raise his arms in the air.
‘Major Watson,’ said the priest with a little laugh. ‘Now, I didn’t expect—’
‘Move that trough. Now!’
‘Which is it to be? Not move and put up our hands or move that trough?’ asked Boxhall.
The trough in question was a large porcelain vessel, around twice the size and depth of a bathtub, and fitted with wheels. Twists of vapour were rising from it, the source of the burning fumes. It was full of sulphuric acid, a chemical used in the processing of gold. Here, though, it was positioned under one of the false graves. It was intended that Captain Peacock would come down, straight into a solution that would do its damnedest to dissolve any evidence of him.
‘Look, Major,’ began Boxhall, ‘it’s not at all what you think—’
The gunshot sounded like a thunderclap and for a moment Watson thought he had missed. Then a large patch of the porcelain, near the base, fell away, and the acid began to gush out.
‘Jesus Christ!’ shouted Boxhall, hopping on alternate legs as the fluid flowed towards him.
Father Hardie slipped behind the trough and pushed it, propelling it down the slope towards Watson. The metal wheels rumbled as it came at him, spewing its corrosive cargo. He sidestepped it, but his face was enveloped in the fumes from the agitated liquid and he spun into the opposite wall, blinded, as the vat crashed to a standstill, its contents still gurgling and hissing out onto the floor of the workings.
Watson wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve and blinked. ‘Hold it!’
Hardie had picked up a length of wood and had taken several steps towards him.
‘Drop that.’ A wave of the Luger. ‘Now.’
Hardie looked down at it and opened his fingers. The timber clattered onto the floor. He took a step back away from it. The standoff resumed, Watson holding the gun, the two men, weaponless, almost daring him to fire at them. Acid hissed around Watson’s feet. He was glad, once more, of his Trenchmasters.
‘What now?’ asked Boxhall. ‘We can’t stay here all night.’
Watson didn’t answer. He didn’t have one. The fumes from the spill were even stronger now and he felt his airways burning with them. They had to move soon.
Watson did not recognize the next sound to come down the tunnel but when Lincoln-Chance strode into view from behind Hardie and Boxhall he realized the man was clapping.
‘The great Dr Watson! Come to prevent more deaths. How? By shooting everyone?’
‘You’ll hang for this,’ said Watson.
‘Possibly,’ said Link, stopping the ironic applause. ‘But just as likely we’ll all disappear with a great deal of money to our name.’
‘Hardie, you are a man of God. How can you justify this? It’s barbaric.’
