The Secret Notebooks of Sherlock Holmes (16 page)

Holmes was waiting for me in my old Baker Street lodgings with our disguises in the form of pea jackets and peaked caps, very like those which Corbett had been wearing and, once we had we put these on, we took a cab to Picott’s wharf.

It was a damp, overcast night with low clouds and therefore there was very little light from either the moon or the stars. Once we had passed from the well-lit streets of west London into the meaner byways of the East End, the only illumination was the subdued yellow gleam of the street lamps which glistened fitfully on the wet pavements and the brick façades of buildings. Even
the passers-by seemed diminished by the weather and slunk furtively along like sad ghosts, huddled in mufflers and shawls against the chill night air. The only bright islands in this sea of murky darkness were garishly-lit taverns and public houses which shone like beacons,
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beckoning the inhabitants of the dingy streets to their warm, glittering interiors.

After travelling along Leadenhall Street for some distance, the cab turned right into a labyrinth of narrow side streets behind St Katherine Docks, until at last it drew up at an arched stone entrance from which a cobbled lane gave access to the wharf. It was poorly lit by a single gas lamp fixed to the brickwork by an iron bracket and, by this dim glow, we made our way between high walls of blackened brick towards the river Thames, led by our ears and noses rather than our eyes, for, although we could see little, we could smell the unmistakable odour of river mud mingled with the fainter tang of the sea and hear the heavy, rhythmic, liquid slop of water against wood and stone.

By that time, the drizzle had turned into a fine rain which lay over the scene like a sombre wash over a pen and ink drawing so that everything, the wharf, the vessels, the river itself, seemed to blur and run into one another, the dark hulks of the ships at anchor melting into the river, the tall masts and rigging merging with
the sky. As for the river itself, it had turned into a dark, sliding mass, like thick oil, in which the glow from the ships’ lanterns was smeared into long, shifting patterns of light.

We felt our way gingerly along the wooden planking of the wharf, so sodden with rain that the sound of our footsteps was deadened as, stepping carefully round casks and barrels and over ropes which lay like coiled serpents in our path, we approached the vast bulk of the
Lucy Belle
which towered above us, the lower part of its four masts just visible before the upper sections and the rigging were swallowed up by the lowering darkness.

There were few lights aboard the ship and no sign of any human activity. Indeed it had the ghostly air of a vessel abandoned by its crew after some terrible tragedy at sea, and I instinctively reached into my pocket to feel for my revolver as a talisman against some unknown danger.

It was a moment of foolishness which quickly passed Moments later, we heard a distant bell strike ten o’clock and, on this signal, the yellow gleam of a lantern sprang up on the darkened deck above us, hung motionless for a second and then gently swung from left to right and then back again.

This was our signal and we groped our way forward towards the gangplank, which we mounted slowly, for it was treacherous underfoot, until at last we reached the top and were hauled on to the deck by Thomas Corbett, who loomed out of the blackness to meet us.

He led the way towards the stern of the ship to a flat-roofed wooden construction housing the passengers’ accommodation and down some steps into a dimly-lit passage lined with doors, one of which he opened before ushering us into a cabin furnished with a bunk bed and a number of lockers, as well as a small table and a chair screwed to the floor. As Holmes had requested, a pen, inkwell and several sheets of paper were lying on the table, above which a lantern was hanging from the ceiling, swinging gently with the movement of the ship and casting glinting lights and shadows over the polished mahogany and brass fittings with which the cabin was equipped.

Thomas Corbett waited until we had settled ourselves, Holmes on the chair, I on the edge of the bunk, before announcing, ‘Since you seem satisfied with the arrangements, Mr Holmes, I’ll fetch Harry Deakin to speak to you.’

Holmes nodded to show his agreement and, as Corbett left, we divested ourselves from our seamen’s outer garments, Holmes first producing from the pocket of his pea jacket a large envelope containing a sheet of stiff paper covered with legal-looking writing that had an official seal of red wax affixed to the bottom, stamped with what appeared to be the impress of a coat of arms.

Having laid this sheet of paper alongside those provided by Corbett, he looked across at me and chuckled.

‘Here, Watson, you see stock in trade for performing the old trick I mentioned to you.’

‘But where on earth did you get that letter?’ I asked.

‘From a dealer in Charing Cross Road who sells second-hand books and old legal documents. If you examine the one I have here, you will see that it is connected with the lease of a property drawn up many years ago.’

‘But suppose Deakin realises what it is?’

‘He will not be given the opportunity to look at it, my dear fellow, as you will shortly see. Ah, here he is now!’ He broke off as there came a knock on the door and Corbett ushered in a nervous-looking, middle-aged man, the very antithesis of the conventional image of a ship’s cook. His features were thin and melancholy, his stature small, and his general air was one of wary suspicion as he stood just inside the door, his eyes darting between Holmes and myself before shifting down to the table where the papers were laid out.

‘Mr Deakin?’ Holmes asked, his voice as clipped and austere as a prosecuting counsel’s. The man nodded.

‘Mr Harry Deakin?’ my old friend persisted.

‘That’s me, sir,’ Deakin replied in a hoarse voice.

The impact of this opening move was evident in Deakin’s demeanour. He seemed to shrink in upon himself and shifted from one foot to another in a manner which suggested extreme unease.

‘I have reason to believe,’ Holmes continued in the same terse voice, ‘that three years ago you served as cook
aboard the barque the
Sophy Anderson
and that …’

At this point he broke off briefly to consult the document with the wax seal as if to confirm his facts before continuing ‘… and that you made the acquaintance of a deck-hand called Billy Wheeler, who later was attacked in a brawl on board the same vessel.’

The effect of this statement on Deakin was immediate and dramatic.

‘That’s a flaming lie!’ he shouted, starting forward so violently that, thinking he was about to attack Holmes, I jumped to my feet to seize my revolver. But Holmes waved me back with a masterful gesture of his hand.

‘Is it indeed a lie? Well, we shall see,’ he told Deakin, tapping with a long index finger on the official-looking document. ‘You will no doubt recall Tommy Brewster, the deck-hand who was killed by a fall from the rigging? Then let me inform you that the year before that accident, Brewster made a statement to a lawyer about those events aboard the
Sophy Anderson
and the death of Billy Wheeler. So there is no use your denying the facts. I have them here in black and white, signed and sealed. Do you still deny that such an incident took place?’

At once, all the fire went out of Deakin, who seemed to shrink in upon himself, his shoulders bowed and his expression one of utter defeat and despair.

‘I ain’t denying nothing, sir,’ he mumbled. ‘It all ’appened as Tommy says but I swear on my mother’s ’ead I ain’t guilty of Billy’s death. I never touched ’im.
It were the others ’oo set on ’im and beat ’im. I tried to stop ’em but what good was one man against five?’

‘You were also a witness to other events on that same morning, I believe?’ Holmes continued, scanning the document as if reading from its contents. ‘You saw, did you not, Captain Chafer feel for a pulse in Wheeler’s neck and then pronounce him dead?’

‘I did, sir,’ Deakin replied in the tone of a man who realises he is defeated.

‘And you witnessed the mate, Thomas Corbett, placing a St Christopher medallion on Wheeler’s chest?’

‘I saw that, too, sir. I ’elped ’im put it there.’

‘You also saw Corbett look across at the captain?’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘What did Chafer do when Corbett looked at him?’ Deakin ran his tongue over his lips before replying. ‘The cap’n drew a finger across ’is throat as if with a knife,’ the man replied without any prompting.

‘Indicating what?’

Again Deakin hung his head, refusing to meet Holmes’ eyes.

‘I don’t foller you, sir.’

My old friend flung himself impatiently back in his chair.

‘Do not trifle with me, my good man!’ he cried. ‘You know perfectly well the meaning of the gesture. It suggests that the person whom it is intended for, Mr Corbett on that occasion, should keep silent or he would have his throat cut, does it not? Does it not, Deakin?’ he repeated, his voice rising.

The wretched man glanced up briefly.

‘Aye, it does, sir,’ he agreed softly.

‘In other words, Chafer was threatening to murder Corbett?’

‘I suppose so, sir.’

The words were dragged out of Deakin.

‘There is no “suppose” about it,’ Holmes retorted.

He paused for a few seconds but, receiving no further response from Deakin, he pressed on.

‘Do you know what Corbett was supposed to keep silent about?’ When Deakin shook his head dumbly, Holmes looked down at the document in front of him, his eyes scanning it as if he were looking for a particular passage. Then, raising his head, he looked directly at Deakin, his gaze fixed and implacable.

‘Then allow me to inform you, Mr Deakin. The truth which Chafer was so anxious Corbett should not divulge was this: Billy Wheeler was still alive when he was wrapped in that canvas shroud and put over the side of the ship. In plain words, he was murdered!’

For several seconds, there was a dreadful silence which seemed interminable and then, without uttering a word, Deakin’s head fell forward and he began to weep. It was a pitiful sight to witness. I doubt if Deakin had wept since he was a child and the tears were wrung out of him in a series of harsh cries, more like the death throes of an animal in torment than a human being.

I was considerably relieved when Holmes, getting up from his chair, came across to whisper to me, ‘Find
Corbett and tell him to signal again with the lantern.’

As I left the cabin, I glanced back to see the tall figure of my friend standing over the crouched form of the ship’s cook, his arms folded and an expression on his lean features as hard and as implacable as if they had been carved from granite. He put me in mind of some grim statue, personifying Vengeance itself.

I had no difficulty in finding Corbett. He was anxiously pacing up and down in the passageway outside the cabin and, as soon as I gave him Holmes’ instructions, he seized his lantern and made for the companionway which led up to the deck. I followed at his heels, wondering who or what the second signal was intended for.

It soon became clear. As soon as Corbett had swung the lantern, several human forms emerged from various hiding-places among the shadows below on the wharf and began to mount the gang-plank. At their head was the unmistakable figure of Inspector Lestrade, dressed in unofficial tweeds, his sharp, sallow features turned up towards the light of the lantern, his dark eyes glinting suspiciously. Behind him tramped half a dozen uniformed men, their black waterproof capes reflecting the light like the oily surface of the Thames.

Lestrade seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

‘What’s going on here, Dr Watson?’ he demanded.

‘Did not Holmes explain matters to you?’ I countered.

‘No, he did not. He called at Scotland Yard this
afternoon when I was out and left a message asking me to come here with half a dozen men at half past ten this evening on what he called a very serious matter. What is this matter, may I ask? And it had better be serious. I don’t take kindly to requests to take myself and a posse of my officers out on a wet night to the back of beyond unless it is a very serious matter indeed. If it wasn’t Mr Holmes who asked, I’d’ve stayed at the Yard in front of the office fire.’

‘I think you had better wait and ask Holmes himself,’ I replied, a little uneasy at Lestrade’s obvious annoyance. ‘This gentleman, by the way, is Mr Thomas Corbett, the mate of the vessel the
Lucy Belle
, or rather the
Sophy Anderson
.’

‘Make up your mind, Dr Watson,’ Lestrade snapped, nodding briefly at Corbett to acknowledge his presence. Realising the situation was too complex to explain to Lestrade in a few sentences, I led the way towards the passengers’ accommodation.

Leaving the six uniformed officers outside the door, only the three of us entered the cabin. Even so, there was hardly room for all of us and Corbett and I were crushed against the bunk bed while Lestrade approached the table where Holmes and Deakin were standing, Holmes looking bright-eyed and confident, Deakin cowed and nervous.

‘Ah, Lestrade!’ Holmes exclaimed as the Inspector came towards him. ‘I am sorry to call you out on such an inclement evening. Allow me to explain the situation.’

This he proceeded to do in a few concise sentences while Deakin shuffled his feet and hung his head in shame and Lestrade’s mouth dropped open in amazement at the account.

‘So you see,’ Holmes concluded briskly, ‘what we have here is a case of murder as well as fraud on a massive scale. And this is what I propose should be done so that the case may go to court. Thomas Corbett is willing to give evidence on oath to those counts of murder and fraud which I have just reported. That evidence will be corroborated by Harry Deakin, the ship’s cook, from whom I have just taken a statement,’ Holmes continued, picking up a sheet of paper from the desk and brandishing it in the air. ‘I now suggest that Mr Deakin signs it in your presence, Lestrade, after which I shall add my signature as witness.’

The little ceremony was carried out in silence as Holmes gave the pen, already dipped in ink, to Deakin who, awed by the gravity of the occasion, signed his name with a trembling hand before Holmes, recharging the pen with ink, added his own signature with a flourish and handed the statement to the Inspector.