Cry of the Innocents Page 2

  On arrival at my modest practice, I was pleased to discover that the damage was less extensive than I had feared. In fact, I even managed to send a boy to find my usual handyman. Kennet was pleased to raise me to the very top of his list of repairs thanks in part to the chance it offered to meet Holmes. My friend’s celebrity had grown much these last few years, not least since the publication of A Study in Scarlet and The Sign of The Four.

  The work in hand, we returned to Baker Street, safe in the knowledge that the house was secured. Mary and I were not homeless, thanks to the generosity of both Holmes and Mrs Hudson, who said we could stay indefinitely.

  “Indeed,” Holmes said, “I will be returning to Paris on the first ferry so you can have the place to yourself.”

  It was a prediction that would soon be confounded.

  While Mary was understandably concerned to return home, our plight was nothing compared to that of the poor wretches who had suffered most at the cruel hands of the great blizzard. According to The Times, the west of England had been most seriously hit. Devon and Cornwall were cut off from the rest of the country, railway lines buried beneath drifts of some eighteen feet or more. Entire trains had been entombed and were being dug out by the army, the rescued passengers understandably shaken after their chilling ordeal. There were also reports of ships lost at sea, and in the weeks to come the cost to the agricultural community would be keenly felt, thousands of animals lost in one abominable night.

  I was reading of these terrible events as there came a knock at the front door. I exchanged a look with both Holmes and Mary as we listened to the stately tread of Mrs Hudson in the hall below. How many cases had begun with a sharp rap on the door such as this? I glanced at my watch. It had just turned seven o’clock and the wind had picked up again. The streets outside were abandoned through fear of another tumultuous night. Who had braved the weather to arrive on our doorstep?

  There was a cry of alarm from Mrs Hudson, followed by the sound of someone stumbling up the stairs. Holmes and I were on our feet as the door crashed open. A corpulent man lurched into the room, broad shoulders covered with snow and a gloved hand clutching his chest. He was dressed in the red-lined robes of a Catholic priest, a silver cross around a full neck and eyes so wide that they looked as though they were trying to escape from their sockets. Jowls wobbled as the man gasped for breath, a strawberry-tinged birthmark livid against ashen skin. He looked wildly around the room, his gaze finally settling on my companion.

  “Signore Holmes,” the priest wheezed in a voice barely more than a whisper. “Il corpe…”

  And without another word our unexpected guest pitched forward and landed lifeless at our feet.

  CHAPTER THREE

  NEW SCOTLAND YARD

  For the second night in a row I found myself buffeted by a cold easterly wind, although this time I was not looking for sanctuary, but being whisked towards the mortuary in a hansom.

  I had rushed to our visitor’s side as soon as he fell, seeking a pulse, while Mary held his head in her lap. Holmes had raised the alarm as soon as I had confirmed that the man was dead and, thanks to the detective’s standing with the Metropolitan Police, none other than Inspector Lestrade had arrived at 221B within the hour. Statements were taken and the body removed, although Lestrade had made it perfectly clear that Holmes was to remain exactly where he was.

  “We will be in touch as soon as there is any information regarding the identity of the corpse, Mr Holmes.”

  “Which information do you mean exactly? The fact that the deceased holds the rank of Monsignor in the Holy Catholic Church, that he has recently travelled to England from the Vatican, or that he suffered dreadfully from gout?”

  “I’m in no mood for your parlour games, Mr Holmes—” Lestrade responded.

  “Parlour games!”

  Lestrade continued as if Holmes hadn’t spoken: “—and must insist that you do as I have asked.”

  Lestrade made his farewells and departed, leaving Holmes to pace the floor and inform all of Baker Street just what he thought of the inspector.

  “Holmes, please,” I entreated, sitting on the settee beside Mary, her hand held tightly in mine. “My wife is upset.”

  “So am I!” came the indignant reply.

  “I am quite well, John,” Mary said, although I believed not a word of it. Holmes, to his credit, deposited himself in his customary chair and made a concerted effort to hide his impatience. We ate dinner in near silence, Holmes barely touching his food, his eyes flitting constantly to the clock on the mantel. It was only after dessert, when Mary insisted that she was over the worst of the shock, that Holmes leapt from his chair and grabbed his long coat, hat and scarf.

  “Mary, I—” I began, but she stopped me.

  “Go with him. You won’t be able to settle otherwise.”

  Kissing her on the cheek, I grabbed my outerwear and hurried down the seventeen steps to the front door to join Holmes on Baker Street.

  Before long we were rattling through the darkening streets of London, our hansom cab swaying in the wind.

  Not wanting to prompt another diatribe regarding Lestrade, I returned my colleague’s attention to his earlier deductions.

  “So, our visitor…” I ventured.

  Holmes let out an exasperated sigh. “Please do not humour me, Watson,” said he, guessing where this line of questioning was going. “You know my methods better than anyone. That the man held the station of Monsignor was obvious by the red piping and buttons on his cassock.”

  “But that he had travelled from Rome? Could he not be part of the Cardinal’s retinue here in London?”

  “Not according to the shoes the unfortunate fellow revealed as he sprawled across Mrs Hudson’s carpet. Black leather with gold buckles and red appliqué. According to the stitching I would venture that they were manufactured by Ditta Annibale Gammarelli, clerical tailors to the Vatican since 1798.”

  I chose not to point out that a London policeman would have little reason to be familiar with the minutiae of Italian ecclesiastical tailoring. At least the diagnosis of gout had been as clear to me as it was to Holmes. The Monsignor’s left ankle had been roughly the size of a cricket ball, which, Holmes pointed out, would also account for the choice of Oxfords over boots.

  We fell into silence as we approached New Scotland Yard. Upon our arrival on the Victoria Embankment, Holmes marched into the large red and white building. Bustling past the bemused constable on the front desk, we made straight for our mysterious clergyman’s temporary resting place.

  As if expecting our approach, Lestrade appeared in the dingy corridor and raised his hands in the manner one would use to try to halt a speeding locomotive. Thankfully, Holmes stopped in his tracks.

  Lestrade sighed. “I thought I told you to stay put.”

  “You did,” Holmes conceded, “and I ignored you. I will see the body now.”

  He moved to continue along the corridor, only to be restrained by a hand on his shoulder.

  “No, you will not. While you have served us well in the past, Mr Holmes, may I remind you that this is Scotland Yard. You are a guest here, a welcome guest most of the time, but one who should be careful not to overstep the mark.”

  I decided it was best to intercede. “Inspector, with all due respect, a man died on our doorstep tonight.”

  “I thought it was your sitting room.”

  “In Holmes’s lodgings then. Is it any wonder that we are curious about what brought him to Baker Street? Can you at least tell us if he has been examined by the police surgeon?”

  Lestrade narrowed his eyes, before shaking his head in defeat. “Oh, very well. Yes, he has been examined.”

  “And has the cause of death been ascertained?” “Unfortunately, God help us all.”

  I was tiring of these games. “Then spit it out, man. What killed him?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” said Holmes. “The police surgeon believes that the Monsignor died of complications arising from cho
lera.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MONSIGNOR ERMACORA

  “Cholera?” came my horrified reply. “Are you sure?”

  “The symptoms are clear for the police surgeon to see,” said Holmes. “The man had obviously been suffering from some kind of stomach complaint. There were traces of vomit on his cassock, which he had endeavoured to wipe clean. Then there was the smell. Even accounting for the evacuation of the bowels post mortem…”

  “Mr Holmes, please,” Lestrade said, his discomfort obvious.

  My companion raised a disparaging eyebrow. “I’m sorry, Inspector. I thought this was a mortuary. Surely such conversations take place as a matter of course.”

  Lestrade let out an exasperated breath, and beckoned us over to a closed door on the other side of the corridor. Opening it, he led us into a small windowless room. At its centre were a table and four chairs, although I noticed Holmes’s eyes flick towards the modest leather case that sat against the wall.

  Lestrade walked around the table and pulled out a chair, indicating that we should sit opposite him.

  “Are we being interrogated?” I joked, eager to break the tension.

  Lestrade did not smile. “According to the cabbie who brought the priest to your door, the man was feverish, almost beside himself with pain. He doubled over almost as soon as he’d entered the cab, clutching his stomach. As Mr Holmes said, he was… unwell on the way to Baker Street.”

  “Did the cabbie attempt to clean up?” I asked, concerned for the poor chap.

  Lestrade nodded. “Unfortunately so. He’s been quarantined, just in case.”

  “May I question him?” Holmes asked.

  Lestrade’s lips were tight as he replied, “I assume you know what quarantine means, Mr Holmes?”

  Holmes’s lips tightened. “Where did he pick up the gentleman?”

  “In Tyburnia, staggering down the Bayswater Road.” The inspector pulled out his notebook and flipped through its pages. “‘At last, at last,’ he said, when the cab stopped to pick him up. ‘Take me to Baker Street, at once.’”

  “I see. And he was carrying that case?”

  Lestrade viewed the article with suspicion, as if it were liable to jump up and bite him like a rabid dog. “You can tell from the leather, I suppose? Italian, is it?”

  “I can tell from the address label,” Holmes replied, cocking his head to read the graceful handwriting from his seat. “Monsignor Ermacora.”

  “Of the Holy City?” I guessed.

  “Quite so.”

  Lestrade was looking distinctly unimpressed. “As you suggested, the Monsignor had also…” he paused, in a display of squeamishness surprising for a policeman, “…soiled his undergarments.” He turned to another page in his notebook. “‘A thin, watery diarrhoea’ according to the police surgeon.”

  “I would examine the vestments,” Holmes announced.

  Lestrade looked up sharply from his notebook. “For what reason?”

  “Clues, Lestrade. What else?”

  Lestrade flipped the notebook shut and returned it to his pocket. “Then you’re out of luck. They’ve already been burned.”

  “Standard procedure,” I interjected, “in cases of cholera.”

  “If this is a case of cholera,” Holmes said.

  “But you said…” I began.

  “I said that the police surgeon believes it to be cholera. Cramps, vomiting and diarrhoea, followed by a heart attack. Am I right, Inspector?”

  “You’ve hit the nail on the head, as usual.”

  Now Holmes turned his attention to me. “Doctor, tell me – when was the last outbreak of cholera in London?”

  “I don’t know. Sixty-two? Sixty-three maybe?”

  “1866,” Holmes informed me, “and almost entirely confined to the East End. Inspector, may I?”

  Lestrade’s brow furrowed. “May you what?”

  “Examine the late Monsignor’s luggage? Or is that also due to be consigned to the furnace?”

  Lestrade scratched his dark-brown sideburns. “I’m not sure.” “It should be quite safe,” I assured the policeman. “The leather itself won’t be contagious.”

  “And even if it were, I still wear my gloves,” Holmes said, raising his hands to show the inspector. “You may burn them afterwards if it helps you sleep at night.”

  Huffing, Lestrade waved Holmes to continue. The detective was out of his seat in an instant. He recovered the case and placed it on the table. I suppressed a smile at the scrape of Lestrade’s chair as he pushed himself back an inch or two.

  Holmes examined the lock; satisfied, he pulled out his trusty lock picks. The case was open in a jiffy and Holmes was rifling through the Monsignor’s possessions as if they were historical artefacts rather than the effects of a man who had recently shuffled off this mortal coil.

  The priest had obviously been a believer in travelling light. The case contained only a few items of clothing, a Holy Bible and a small black notebook, fixed with a clasp. The clothes were examined, the Bible thumbed through and the notebook read in silence.

  Finally, Holmes uttered two short words: “Saint Nicole.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  Holmes passed me the notebook. “The last words Monsignor Ermacora wrote before meeting his maker.”

  “Not quite, Holmes,” I pointed out. “There’s a number, 930.”

  Holmes addressed the inspector. “Lestrade, was a ticket found upon his person?”

  “A ticket?”

  “A train ticket. The Monsignor was picked up while transporting a case through Tyburnia. Surely it is no great leap to suggest that he had recently arrived at Paddington Station.”

  “Why not hail a cab at the station?” I asked.

  “The station, like the rest of the city, is still recovering from the events of Monday night. What was it he cried on finding a cab, Inspector?”

  “At last, at last,” Lestrade provided.

  “Suggesting that up to that point he had been searching in vain. Plus, the poor fellow was running a fever and in great discomfort. He would have been disorientated, confused; lost in a foreign city. But what of Saint Nicole?”

  “A study of his?” I suggested.

  “Quite possibly,” Holmes conceded, taking the notebook back from me. “Saint Nicole; also sometimes known as Saint Colette. She lived the life of an anchoress in Picardy, France; Corbie Abbey to be precise.”

  “An anchoress?” Lestrade asked.

  “Walled into a cell with only a small window to connect her to the outside world.”

  “Good heavens,” said I.

  Holmes continued flicking through the notebook. “While she certainly lived an interesting life, I do not believe she was the subject of the Monsignor’s devotions. This notebook contains nothing but dates, times and locations. The Monsignor obviously used it as an aide-mémoire, jotting down his appointments as they were made. The entry before ‘Nicole’ is an itinerary, detailing his journey across Europe. I hope his journey to Dover was less traumatic than my own.”

  “Does it tell us his intended destination?” Lestrade asked. “When he arrived in England, I mean?”

  Holmes shook his head. “Sadly not. Although look at the numbers that Watson so dutifully noticed: 930.” He held the page to his nose. “There is an indentation between the nine and the three, where the pen pressed into the paper but no ink flowed. Nine thirty then.”

  “A train time!” I realised.

  “A reasonable hypothesis, Watson. I believe that we are searching for a place bearing the saint’s name, an abbey or parish church, located somewhere between here and Taunton.”

  “Taunton?” asked Lestrade.

  “According to The Times, the line below Taunton is still impassable due to the snow. Lestrade, have you a register of Catholic churches, primarily in the west of England?”

  Like a bloodhound with a new scent, Lestrade vanished from the room to reappear ten minutes later. Panting heavily, he slamme
d a heavy leather-bound tome on the table.

  “Here,” he said, opening the book to the appropriate page. “The Church of St Nicole.”

  “Corn Street, Bristol,” Holmes read. “Excellent work, Lestrade.”

  The inspector positively beamed, like a child praised for tying his own shoelaces.

  “We must send a telegram to your counterparts in Bristol,” Holmes announced, “to discover if there have been any recent cases of cholera in that great city. Will you do that for me?”

  Lestrade said that he would.

  “Excellent. Dr Watson and I shall return to Baker Street. Send a boy as soon as you have word.”

  * * *

  It was the following morning by the time a note was delivered to our door. Mrs Hudson brought up the envelope as Holmes was enjoying the latest in a long line of cigarettes.

  Excitedly he called to me. “Watson, we’re in luck. A Father Kelleher has fallen sick and is being treated at Bristol Royal Infirmary. Look,” he thrust the paper into my hand. “Suspected cholera!”

  “I doubt Father Kelleher finds it lucky,” my wife commented, not looking up from her needlepoint.

  Holmes purposely ignored her. “Don’t you see what this means, Watson? Two Catholic priests, both with suspected cholera, but no other cases on record? Tell me, is that likely?” “Well, if it is the beginning of another epidemic—”

  “Of a disease many acknowledge as a disease of the poor.”

  “Only they are stupendously misinformed. Cholera pays no heed to class or position, Holmes. It kills rich and poor alike.”

  “True, but statistically the impoverished are more likely to fall prey to its symptoms. Take the last outbreak in London – why the East End and nowhere else?” He continued without pausing for me to answer. “Because work on the sewers had yet to reach the affected areas. Over two thousand dead within eleven weeks, all because they were exposed to untreated water. Now, you saw Monsignor Ermacora… Did he look the kind of man who, despite his calling, lives with the poor and needy? Did he look like the kind of man who regularly consumes untreated water?”