Sherlock Holmes--The Devil's Dust Read online

  “It was.”

  “I thought as much. One can faintly discern its outline. The rectangular area of bare floor it used to cover is by a tiny margin less darkened and discoloured than the surrounding remainder. And Niemand’s body lay pointed which way?”

  “That way, his head towards the window.”

  “And thus also towards the section of skirting board where we see the cap-less pen. He was right-handed?”

  “I think so. I am not sure.”

  “Either way, it does not matter much. The main thing is that he lay prostrate in this direction.” Holmes swept a hand towards the bay window. “The piece of paper therefore might well have rested here, just beside him, before it was so carelessly kicked under the desk. The desk is within arm’s reach of his position. The pen’s cap is also not far. As for the pen itself, it could conceivably have fetched up where it is now after having rolled from his lifeless hand.”

  “He wrote something down as he lay dying,” I said.

  “Precisely. There is text upon the paper. See?”

  Holmes indicated a row of jagged, uneven characters.

  “There are flecks of blood, too,” he added. “Along with those, one may descry the impression of the toe end of a boot sole. I would lay good odds on said footwear being the property of a constable.”

  He retrieved the pen and scribbled a quick line or two with it upon another scrap of paper. He held the two scraps side by side and seemed satisfied with his findings.

  “Yes, the ink matches. A slight misalignment between the tines of the nib is discernible in both instances. I would aver that, in extremis, Niemand managed to reach up and snatch both pen and paper from the desk, and, even as he gasped his last, jotted down some morsel of information he wished to impart.”

  “Oh, the poor, brave man,” Mrs Biddulph sighed, her eyes brimming with tears. “All this happened right here, just a floor below where I sat, unknowing. How dreadful. It hardly bears thinking about. If only he had cried out. I might have heard. I might have been able to help.”

  “The poison, if such was the cause of death, was fast-acting,” said Holmes. “Niemand must have realised he had little time. His first and only imperative was to write this note, while he still could.”

  “He wanted to provide some clue as to who killed him,” I said. “What does the note say?”

  “Ah. There, I am afraid, I draw a blank. Take a look for yourself.”

  Niemand’s message was barely legible, but I managed to make out seven distinct capital letters:

  UTHULI L

  “‘Uthuli L’,” I said. “Could that be someone’s name? Someone Indian, perhaps? In Afghanistan I knew a Sepoy with the forename Utphal. ‘Utphalred the Unready’ we called him, for he was always missing some piece of kit or other. We chevied him about constantly.”

  “The point of this delightful anecdote being…?”

  “Well, the two sound similar – Uthuli and Utphal. And the ‘L’ could be an abbreviation of a surname.”

  “That is one possibility. We must also consider the likelihood that the message is not a name at all but the beginning of something longer, a phrase or sentence that Niemand was unable to complete before death overcame him. The progressive faintness and clumsiness of the letters implies a hand rapidly succumbing to enfeeblement.”

  I returned the scrap of paper to Holmes and he tucked it into a pocket.

  “Are you going to share this intelligence with the police?” I enquired.

  “At some point I no doubt shall, but for the time being, what they so blunderingly disregarded they do not deserve to know about. That includes the fetish and the handkerchiefs as well. I have a couple more questions for you, Mrs Biddulph, if I may, and then we shall leave you in peace.”

  “By all means, Mr Holmes. Ask away.”

  “Inigo Niemand was your lodger for a month, according to your letter to Mrs Hudson.”

  “That is so. A little under a month.”

  “You have indicated that he was reclusive.”

  “Yes. I put it down to his ill health. He preferred to stay indoors. I would go so far as to say he had an antipathy to daylight, for he habitually kept the curtains drawn.”

  “Interesting. Did he ever have visitors during the time he was renting from you?”

  “He did not. No, I tell a lie. Someone did call by. Last Wednesday, I think it was, in the evening.”

  “You saw the person?”

  “No. Since the flat has its own private front door, guests may come and go without entering the main part of the house, as may the lodger himself. That is very convenient for me, you can imagine. Whoever came on Wednesday, I heard him knock and I heard Mr Niemand invite him in, but beyond that I can tell you nothing about him.”

  “Him. So it was a man.”

  “It was a man. The sound of their conversation came up through the floorboards, and the voice that was not Mr Niemand’s was male.”

  “Did you hear what either said?”

  “I am no eavesdropper, Mr Holmes,” Mrs Biddulph replied in a tone of mild affront. “Besides, it was muffled. I heard only the murmur of voices, not individual words.”

  “Did they argue?”

  “Not as far as I could tell. Tone and volume remained at a civil level throughout.”

  “How long did the visitor stay?”

  “An hour or thereabouts.”

  “Did you see him depart?”

  “By then night had fallen and I had drawn the blinds. I heard the flat door open and close, but I did not feel moved to peek out, curious though I was about Mr Niemand’s guest. The lodger’s business is his own business. That is one of my cardinal rules as a landlady.”

  “Mine too,” said Mrs Hudson. “Believe me,” she added with some asperity, “given the queer practices Mr Holmes gets up to, I am glad I keep my nose out of it.”

  Holmes blithely ignored the jibe. “Has anybody called since?” he asked Mrs Biddulph.

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Well, the presence of one anonymous visitor is at least more illuminating than none at all. Now we come to the question of Niemand’s last supper. That would seem to lie near the heart of all this, if not right at its epicentre. Over there, at the foot of the stairs, is the breakfast tray, where you deposited it. Over here, upon the table, is the supper tray.”

  “Just so.”

  “The contents of the breakfast tray are untouched, of course. Niemand’s supper, on the other hand, has been eaten. Not a morsel remains. I see a bowl which contained what appears to have been stew.”

  “Mutton stew.”

  “And a plate which, to judge by the crumbs, held bread.”

  “Two large hunks. The same meal as I myself ate.”

  “A hearty repast. Niemand used the bread to mop up the liquid of the stew, down to practically the last drop. The swipe patterns which one can perceive amidst the dried remnants encrusting the bowl denote as much. From the table to the rug is a distance of some four or five paces, in the direction of the window. One may, then, infer that Niemand rose from his chair after he had finished his meal and that he did not get far. The poison struck and he staggered, beginning to feel its effects. He swooned. He fell. Knowing what was happening to him, he seized pen and paper and scribbled his desperate – if enigmatic – message, then expired.”

  All of the above actions Holmes mimed, reproducing Niemand’s dying moments. I had long since apprehended that my friend had a thespian streak, and he would often indulge, as now, his flair for the dramatic.

  He returned his attention to the supper tray. “You are in the practice, Mrs Biddulph, of leaving the tray overnight?”

  “I pick it up when I bring down breakfast. I consider my daily duties as a landlady discharged with the provision of an evening meal. My work-day resumes at breakfast time.”

  “It remains here – cutlery, crockery, cruet set and all – until the next morning?”

  “I have a second set of china for the exclu
sive use of my lodger, one I purchased cheap at a bric-a-brac shop on Portobello Road. Plates, bowls, cups, saucers, the lot. That way, should an item get broken, I do not mind so much for it is not my best tableware.”

  “All of this is good to know,” said Holmes. “Would I be permitted to take the empty bowl away with me? I should like to subject it to analysis.”

  “It is yours.”

  “Thank you. And one last favour. Might I inspect the exterior of the house, back and front?”

  Permission was granted, and Holmes spent some time in the yard, where I heard him rattle the windows at the rear of the flat. He spent some further time in the small light-well area out front, striding to and fro, crouching, squinting. At last he pronounced his survey complete and we took our leave. Holmes saluted the constable on sentry duty, eliciting a disgruntled smile, while Mrs Hudson tendered Mrs Biddulph the promise that she would return on the morrow and see how her friend was faring.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE SHADOWER

  As we set off down the fog-shrouded street Sherlock Holmes was in a subdued and pensive frame of mind. I knew better than to intrude upon his ruminations, for that was a sure-fire method of earning a caustic rebuke. Instead I busied myself looking out for a passing cab to carry us home.

  Mrs Hudson, however, being not quite so intimately experienced in my friend’s moods, asked, “Well, Mr Holmes? What conclusions have you arrived at?”

  Holmes exhaled testily. “It is too soon to say. The case presents many singular facets. I have done what I can under less than ideal circumstances. This bowl” – he nodded to the item of crockery under his arm – “may yield further gains. Equally, because there is so precious little stew left in it to work with, it may not. That is the best I can offer, for now.”

  “But you behaved towards Ada as though you are convinced of her innocence.”

  “I am unconvinced of her guilt, which is not the same thing.”

  “You surely cannot be of the view that a woman like her is capable of coldblooded murder.”

  “I am not prepared to discount any possibility at this juncture,” said Holmes. “Not until all the data are in. Facts are the framework upon which to build a case, my dear woman, not fancies or hopes. I realise you wish your friend to be blameless. For what it is worth, I do too. But one must separate desire from duty and opinion from logic. I would be remiss as a detective if I neglected to do so. Head must always rule over heart in these instances, otherwise what is the point?”

  Mrs Hudson looked to me for support, but all I could do was give a hapless shrug of the shoulders. I knew better than to appeal to Holmes’s finer feelings. Those few he had, he was wont to keep well in check.

  We continued along the broad, cobbled thoroughfare but had not gone a dozen more yards when, apparently apropos of nothing, Holmes muttered, “Keep walking.”

  “What?” I said.

  “You heard. Keep walking as though all is as normal. You too, Mrs Hudson. We are merely three confederates strolling along, minding our own business.”

  “I do not understand,” said Mrs Hudson, speaking in a low voice as Holmes had.

  “I think I do,” I said, likewise softly. “We are being followed. No!” I hissed. “Do not look round, Mrs Hudson. Do exactly as Holmes says. Our shadower must not know that we are on to him.”

  Mrs Hudson did her utmost to affect a casual air, yet apprehension was all too apparent in her bearing. She moved stiffly, like an automaton. The harder she tried to saunter, the more she looked as though she were marching.

  “Oh dear me,” she whispered. “I am not as adept as you two at this sort of subterfuge.”

  “You are doing well,” I told her. “Holmes, are you sure there is someone behind us? The fog is thick and the daylight is waning. It is getting more and more difficult to see. Perhaps you imagined—”

  “I imagined nothing,” Holmes retorted, cutting me off. “He is a stealthy fellow. He is using not only the billows of fog for cover but any convenient wall or lamppost. His tread is so light as to be effectively silent. If I had not chanced to catch a glimpse of him from the corner of my eye, I would have no inkling he was there at all. But he is most definitely there. Let us turn this next corner, even though it is not the way back to Baker Street.”

  We did as we were bid, and no sooner were we on the adjoining road than Holmes thrust the bowl into my hands, saying, “Hold on to this. Keep going. Protect Mrs Hudson at all costs, with your life if need be.” Then he was off, darting ahead into the fog. In seconds he was lost from view.

  I lent Mrs Hudson the crook of my elbow, which she took with some gratitude.

  “Doctor, I am frightened,” she confided.

  “No mischief will befall you, madam, I swear. Any blackguard who so much as raises a hand towards you shall have me to answer to.”

  Even as I said the words I found myself regretting that I had not had the foresight to bring along my service revolver. I had not anticipated I might need it, but in my defence, neither had Holmes, and it was he I relied upon to stipulate whether the gun’s presence was required on a case.

  We proceeded side by side, Mrs Hudson and I, wending our way along Notting Hill’s mazy streets. My every sense was alert to danger, my body tensed to react at the least provocation. My companion’s tension was palpable in her quickened breathing and the pressure applied by the hand clutching my arm, her fingers digging so hard into my flesh that it was almost painful. The sudden rumble of a window sash being lowered startled us both. A cough nearby set my heart racing, until I perceived that it came from a lamplighter who was hoisting his wick on its pole to ignite a gas jet. The folds of the London particular continued to swirl and thicken around us while the twilight shadows deepened.

  Then came rapid footfalls, approaching from the rear. Swift ly I disengaged myself from Mrs Hudson and swung round. I raised the bowl without thinking, holding it aloft in both hands. I knew it was evidence, perhaps crucial to the case, but right then it had greater value as a potential weapon, and I did not care if in employing it to defend myself I destroyed it.

  A figure loomed from the fog’s sulphurous swathes.

  “Ho, Watson!” came a familiar voice.

  All set to dash the bowl down upon the fellow’s head as hard as I could, I stayed the blow.

  “Holmes! Is that you?”

  “Would you brain me? I am aware that my habits can grate, but not to the extent, surely, that you might wish me bodily harm.”

  Panting, my friend halted and bent double, hands braced upon knees, to catch his breath.

  “How did you get behind us?” I enquired.

  “By the simple expedient of diverting down an alleyway between two houses, then taking a circuitous route back the way we came. I planned to catch our shadower unawares. Alas, no such luck. He was wise to my game.”

  “He has eluded you?”

  “With embarrassing ease. I had him in my sights and fully intended to steal up on him and challenge him. He, however, seemed cognisant of my proximity. It was quite uncanny. He did not glance over his shoulder. He did not twitch or give any other hint that he knew I was there, but suddenly he broke into a run, with the head-down determination of one who was clearly fleeing. I gave chase, but he was fast, far faster than I. At a flat-out sprint I could not narrow the gap between us. My quarry soon vanished into the fog, and I could not even track him by ear, for just as he had made no sound when following us at walking pace, so he made no sound when running. It was like trying to keep up with a panther in the jungle.”

  “Who was he? Any notion?”

  “I know little about him save that he was a man of advanced years, to judge by his crop of grizzled white hair, not tall, and thin to the point of emaciation. I would put his weight at no more than nine and a half stone, with nary an ounce of fat on him. His skin was brown, somewhat leathery in appearance, but from the fleeting glimpse I had of his face he is clearly a white man. As he moved he evinced a slight limp
, a hitch in one leg suggestive of an old injury, though one not so debilitating that it slowed him any.” The last comment was couched in rueful tones. “More than that I cannot attest to with any confidence.”

  “If you saw him again, you would recognise him?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “Then that is something. Do you suppose he dogged our footsteps all the way from Mrs Biddulph’s house?”

  “One cannot help but think so. It is feasible that he might be some roving cutpurse who meant to threaten us and take our money until I scared him off, but I doubt a lone man would be so bold as to target a party of three, especially when two of that party are male.”

  “He could have assumed you and I were more refined than we really are.”

  “If so, he would have had a rude awakening. But then there are his extraordinary powers of speed and stealth to consider. Not to mention his tanned appearance.”

  “You intuit that he has some association with Inigo Niemand, who was tanned too?”

  “It seems a remarkable coincidence otherwise. In which case it is probable that our mysterious and wily follower was lying in wait outside Mrs Biddulph’s and, when he saw us emerge, felt moved to trail us.”

  “To what end?”

  “Perhaps to listen in on our conversation. Perhaps, if the opportunity had arisen, to make an attempt on our lives. I err towards the former rationale, else he might have tried to kill me when I drew near him, rather than flee.”

  “Mr Holmes, might you and Dr Watson see fit to continue your discussion at another time?” said Mrs Hudson. “Preferably when we are all safely ensconced in Baker Street once more.”