Sherlock Holmes - Gods of War Read online

  His face I would call sleekly handsome, his looks well preserved for a man in his fifties. Yet a shadow of beard stubble coated his jaw, and another kind of shadow, a subtler, sadder one, haunted his eyes. He looked, in short, haggard, someone who had been assailed by a recent calamity and who had forsaken the niceties of personal grooming even as he strove to keep his distress in check.

  Had Holmes not made the formal introductions – “Watson, Inspector Tasker you already know, and the gentleman he has brought with him to see us is Craig Mallinson, Esquire.” – I would nonetheless have intuited the stranger’s identity. At the very least I would have wagered good money that here was the father of the drowned man on the beach.

  “Mr Mallinson,” I said. “Please accept my sincerest condolences. Your son… It is too dreadful to contemplate.”

  “I thank you, Dr Watson,” said Mallinson. “The sentiments are appreciated. My grief is great. Patrick is – was – the younger of my two boys. He was always the apple of his mother’s eye, and I had great hopes for him. He may not have been the most obedient of children, unlike his brother Clive, but there was nonetheless a deep and abiding affection between us that I believed could survive all rifts. But not this… This, the ultimate rift.”

  “His mother,” said Holmes. “Is she…?”

  Mallinson nodded. “Jocelyn died when Clive and Patrick were toddlers. She was taken by typhoid fever. We were living in Egypt at the time, where I have commercial interests. Her death impelled me to leave and return to England, and here I have remained ever since, being the best father I could to our sons, bringing them up as cultured, educated young men, just as she would have wanted. In a way, I am glad that she didn’t live to see this.”

  Emotion choked Mallinson’s voice. We all gave him time to collect himself.

  “Even now I cannot quite believe it,” he said. “I shan’t see Patrick again, shan’t sit across the dining table from him, shan’t discuss politics and current affairs with him, as was our wont. To think that his future has been denied him.”

  Holmes fetched a glass of brandy, which Mallinson downed with trembling gratitude. It was pitiful to see someone so abundantly able and dignified so utterly unmanned.

  “He never once begrudged me the string of governesses I hired to look after him while he was growing up,” he continued. “Neither did Clive. They both understood that my work is important and that I needed to be away on business a great deal. I saw them as often as I could, as often as my commitments allowed. For all that, we were as close a family as could be.”

  “What, pray, is your occupation, Mr Mallinson?” Holmes enquired.

  “Mining. Import.”

  Tasker piped up. “Fully a fifth of the rare minerals and chemical elements that enter this country from abroad arrive through Mr Mallinson’s auspices. Is that statistic correct, sir?”

  “Something in that region.”

  “Mr Mallinson is a well-regarded personage hereabouts,” Tasker went on. “Most august and influential.”

  The inspector wanted us to know not only how important Mallinson was but also how important he himself was as the liaison between Mallinson and us.

  “I have no doubt as to that,” Holmes said. “Your estate near Alfriston covers several hundred acres, does it not, Mr Mallinson? I have skirted the bounds of your property many a time while I’ve been out on a ramble.”

  “I have the privilege of owning Settleholm Manor and its attached land, yes,” said Mallinson. “I purchased it off the Duke of Devonshire himself, inheriting the tied arable fields and grazing pastures as well.”

  “And never once have I received a complaint from any of his tenant farmers,” Tasker interjected. “They have nothing but praise for him as a landlord. Treats them more than generously, he does.”

  “And your sons,” said Holmes, “they were raised at Settleholm?”

  “Yes,” said Mallinson, “aside from spells at boarding school, first a preparatory in Kent, then Eton. Clive was always at his happiest here, though, and Patrick even more so. He adored the surrounding countryside. The Downs, the sea, the cliffs, the meander at Cuckmere Haven, they were his playground. Clive is somewhat more sophisticated in his tastes, less easily contented with the simpler things.”

  “Did contentment become an issue for Patrick later in life?”

  “Whatever are you driving at?”

  “Perhaps I should rephrase. Mr Mallinson, why have you come to visit? I do not suppose for one moment that this is a random social call. You are here about your son’s death in some capacity or other.”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  “Dr Watson and I had the great misfortune to chance upon the young man’s body. My impression is that you had already spied it earlier, from the cockpit of your biplane.”

  “I did. I telephoned the Eastbourne police as soon as I landed and directed them to the precise location. I could not bear to go myself. From the air, the body I saw certainly looked like Patrick’s, but I continued to hold out the vain hope that it was not. Finally Inspector Tasker came to Settleholm and delivered the message I had been praying not to hear. His words fell on my soul like a hammer blow.”

  “Among the many tasks that are a policeman’s lot,” said Tasker, “being the bearer of bad tidings is the one I relish the least. Yet I trust that I am sufficiently compassionate and sympathetic when I am called upon to execute it.”

  “Patrick had gone missing, then?” said Holmes.

  “Since the day before yesterday,” said Mallinson. “I was up in London all week and so I was unaware of his absence until I returned home on Saturday morning. It was supposed to be Friday evening but I was unavoidably detained. None of my household servants had seen Patrick since the previous afternoon. He had not appeared at dinner, nor had he returned home by the time they went to bed. When he did not come down for breakfast the next morning, the butler went up to his room to check on him. The bed had not been slept in. None of them was unduly perturbed, however. Patrick had stayed out late before, often lodging overnight at some friend’s house and without leaving any note to indicate his whereabouts. I, on the other hand, was worried.”

  “For what reason?”

  “Patrick had become restless and uneasy over the past few months. He was not himself. Deferring his place at Cambridge, that was one symptom of the malaise. He was due to read Classics at Corpus Christi, something he had worked tirelessly for at school. Yet over the summer he changed his mind, seeming to get cold feet. I tried to convince him that university was a golden opportunity, a place where he could meet new friends and where the course of the rest of his life would be set. I pointed out that Clive had been a great success as an undergraduate, gaining not only a double first but a rowing blue. Patrick, however, prevaricated and eventually wrote to the college Master requesting a year’s grace. It was a decision I was not best pleased by, and I begged him on several occasions to reconsider.”

  “Do you have any idea what might have prompted it?”

  “Some.” Mallinson’s expression darkened. “I cannot say irrefutably that the two things are connected, but I believe a major contributory factor may be found in Eastbourne itself.”

  “A girl.”

  “How did you guess?”

  “I did not. It was beyond elementary. When a young man is troubled and begins to behave oddly and make imprudent choices, by far the likeliest cause is that he has contracted a relationship with a member of the fairer sex. Love can make fools of even the wisest among us, and wisdom is a quality seldom found in the young. So Patrick had become enthralled by a local lass. Do you know her?”

  “Her path and mine have crossed.”

  “And your opinion of her?”

  “Is irrelevant. Let us just say that she was unsuitable for my son on every level, over and above the effect she was having on him, distracting him from finishing his education.”

  “Ah,” said Holmes. “And was your disapproval of her in any way a source of friction b
etween you and Patrick?”

  “I tried not to let it be. I tried to be as understanding and forgiving about the situation as I could. But to see him throw his place at Cambridge away for the sake of a mere dalliance…”

  “You said he asked for a deferment.”

  “Which is as good as throwing it away. He was only pretending to want to postpone it, so that I would not be too aggrieved. I could tell, however, that he had no intention of going up.”

  “Patrick and you, in other words, were at loggerheads, and when you came down from town on Saturday and he was not at home, you began to fear the worst.”

  “Call it parental intuition. No matter how I tried, I could not shake the feeling that he had gone and done something drastic.”

  “It didn’t occur to you that he might simply have left home to go and stay with the object of his affections? That possibly they had even eloped?”

  “No, Mr Holmes, for the simple reason that Patrick had told me just last week that he and she were on the outs.”

  “I see. They had broken off the affair. On whose wishes? His or hers?”

  “Hers, as I understand it.”

  “Very well. So we have a lovelorn youth, deeply unhappy, suffering his first rebuff from a girl for whom he had been prepared to sacrifice everything. I can see now why, when confronted with his sudden disappearance, your thoughts may have turned to the worst possible outcome.”

  “I gave it one more night. I said to myself, ‘Perhaps he has gone off to be on his own somewhere, to cool off, to take stock.’ Yet I could not shake the impression that he had done himself harm. I barely slept. Yesterday afternoon my gamekeeper and I scoured the grounds of the estate looking for him. We had the dog out, and I was hoping against hope that Patrick was in an outbuilding, or sleeping rough in the woods. But we found no trace of him. Hence this morning I took out the plane in order to search further afield. I covered miles, quartering the Downs from Polegate to Firle Beacon, then proceeding to the coast, shuttling back and forth between Eastbourne and Seaford, all along the Seven Sisters. On my final pass, with my fuel running low, I… I spotted what could have been a body, by the foot of Beachy Head. And I knew. Patrick had done what so many have done before, other spurned lovers…”

  At that point Mallinson broke down, unable to retain mastery of himself any longer. His sobs wrenched at the heart. He buried his face in his hands, and the tears leaked out between his fingers.

  When at last he recovered, he apologised, but Holmes assured him that no apology was necessary.

  “Tasker here mentioned that he had had the good fortune of meeting you beside Patrick’s body,” Mallinson said. “The famous Sherlock Holmes, our reclusive local celebrity.”

  I am quite sure that Tasker had not put it in those terms. Judging by his behaviour during our first encounter, he would have described Holmes much less flatteringly.

  “I immediately desired to make your acquaintance,” Mallinson went on. “I would have telephoned, but when I tried, the switchboard informed me that no one of your name is on the exchange.”

  “I do not own a telephone,” said Holmes. “I am amenable to being contacted by the traditional methods, or visited in person, but I will not have a device in the house that can ring at any hour of day or night and disturb my repose or my train of thought with its jangling racket. I am not averse to any of the appurtenances of the modern era, but having a telephone installed is where I draw the line. No pun intended.”

  “Mr Mallinson enjoined me to come with him,” said Inspector Tasker. “It went against my instincts, but he was adamant, and I am not one to turn down a request from a pillar of the community, especially one so newly bereaved.”

  “I would like to keep this all above board,” said Mallinson, “and have the police involved at every step. You see, Mr Holmes, I wish to engage your services. Whatever your going rate is, I will pay you, and more. Money is no object.”

  My friend bowed cautiously. “I am prepared to consider it, but what I fail to understand is how I can possibly be of help. Your son committed suicide, Mr Mallinson. That is what you are telling me. He threw himself off Beachy Head in a fit of despair, having been jilted by a girl. Is that not all there is to it?”

  “I expect so, Mr Holmes, but I need to know for absolute certain. How to put this? I am a man of means, a man of considerable worldly status. With that eminence comes renown and also attention. When misfortune strikes one such as me, it becomes a public matter. There are headlines. People pry. There is intrusion. Worse, my enemies and business rivals, of whom I have a fair few, get very excited. They start rubbing their hands with glee. They may perceive that I am weakened. They may reckon there is an opportunity to get the better of me. The industry I operate in is as cutthroat as any. It’s every man for himself and devil take the hindmost.”

  “You wish to protect yourself.”

  “In a manner of speaking. I do not want Patrick’s name – and consequently mine – to be dragged through the mud. I do not want even a hint of impropriety attached to his death. It could be the ruin of me.”

  “I cannot cover up the facts here, if that’s what you’re asking me. It would be entirely beyond me. Even if my silence were for sale, and Watson’s, there are others who have seen the body, including Inspector Tasker’s own men and some of the Winnick fisher folk. The former might be persuaded to keep a secret but not the latter. In short, not even through your best efforts can you hope to bury the truth.”

  “You misapprehend, sir,” said Mallinson. “I am not trying to buy your or anyone’s collusion. That is not my intent at all. What I would like you to do for me is prove beyond a shred of doubt that nothing more sinister has happened than appears to have. I don’t want anyone to be able to insinuate that there is more to Patrick’s death than the scenario I have laid out before you. If the revered Sherlock Holmes himself, having investigated, states that Patrick took his own life, then there can be no question but that it is so. The carpers and the gossipmongers won’t have a leg to stand on. My company will be insulated from outside attack and I will be free to mourn in privacy and peace. It will not bring Patrick back, nor will it compensate me for what I have lost, but it will at least bring me a modicum of mental ease.”

  “I see,” said Holmes. “A further question. Where is Clive right now? Is he at home?”

  “Clive? No. The lad is abroad. Egypt. El Nuweiba, to be precise, in the eastern part of the Sinai Peninsula, beside the Gulf of Aqaba. He oversees business for me there, running the mines and ensuring the shipments of raw materials go out on time. My man on the ground, as it were.”

  “I take it you haven’t informed him yet about Patrick.”

  “No, and I am dreading it. How can I send that telegram? How do I word it? What do I say? Clive doted on Patrick. They were inseparable, growing up. He was the perfect older brother, vigilant, protective. This will break his heart, Mr Holmes. Break it in two, as it has broken mine!”

  “I imagine Clive won’t make it back from Egypt in time for Patrick’s funeral.”

  Mallinson shook his head sorrowfully. “It will take a day or two at least for the message to reach him. After that, he’ll have to travel for at least two days by train to Alexandria, and another week and a half by boat to Dover. I wouldn’t expect him home for a fortnight, and we cannot delay the ceremony that long. Poor Clive. He shan’t even be here to see his brother interred.”

  The mining magnate fixed Holmes with an imploring look.

  “Please, Mr Holmes,” he said. “For the sake of Patrick’s brother, if not mine, clear this matter up as soon as possible, will you? At least then Clive will be able to come back to a home transfigured by grief but not by scandal and dishonour.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  AT TRIPP’S COSTUMIERS

  “Let me see if I have it straight,” I said to Holmes as we made our way on foot into town the next morning. “You have been hired to prove that a death which you happen to regard as suspicious is in
fact anything but.”

  “That is the long and the short of it.”

  “And the irascible Inspector Tasker, who yesterday forbade you from interfering in any way, is now under constraint from Craig Mallinson to offer you all assistance he can.”

  “Irony heaped upon irony.”

  East Dean was situated a couple of miles to the west of Eastbourne, and the most direct route from one to the other was a deep-cut track of the kind known thereabouts as a “bostal”. It climbed the hillside at a steep gradient, and I was quite out of puff when we reached the summit. Before us lay the town itself and, beyond, the flat scrubby expanse of the Pevensey Levels. Hastings was a pale hazy smudge along the far arm of the bay. The nip I had felt in the air the day before was quite marked this morning, and the majority of the trees within view had – overnight, it seemed – turned from green to brown.

  “Tasker’s face,” I said when I had regained my breath. “What a sight it was, when Mallinson demanded that he co-operate fully with you. He looked fit to explode.”

  “That is what you get when you kowtow to the members of the establishment,” said Holmes. “You must acquiesce to their every whim, even at the expense of your own wishes. I do not think, though, that he will go out of his way to be helpful. He will do the bare minimum to be seen to be complying.”

  “Better than nothing.”

  “So many things are.”

  In town, we located our destination, a shop in a side street in the area nicknamed Little Chelsea, due south of the railway station. It was a costumier’s called Tripp’s, and its hoarding boasted Fine Fanciful Wear for all Occasions, while inside the window, painted in gold, was the legend:

  Theatrical • Recreational • Historical

  For Hire or Purchase

  Made to Measure

  The interior was a touch musty, and as the chime of the bell above the door faded I took in the display mannequins whose outfits ranged from a Hussar’s uniform to some sort of fairy godmother ensemble complete with wand and gossamer wings. Fastened to the walls were masks – a whole Venetian masquerade of plumed dominos on the end of lorgnette-style sticks, grinning Harlequins and hook-nosed Dottori – which stared down at us with a vacancy I found unsettling. From clothes racks hung pirate, jester and minstrel costumes, and shelves bore such accessories as wigs, beards, moustaches and false noses, while on the counter was an array of makeup items.