Gaslight Grimoire: Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes (29 page)

Holmes glowered. “And doubtless savaged, as well, features ruined.” He shook his head, angrily. “The first bodies attributed to this so-called ‘Dismemberer’ had been killed and mutilated, with the apparent intention of hiding their identities. These more recent victims, though, appear to have been killed by someone who took a positive delight in the act itself.”

I nodded. We’d had opportunity to examine the previous three victims, or rather to examine what remained of them, and Holmes’ assessment was my own. Even the Ripper had only approached such degradations in his final, and most gruesome killing.

I turned the pages of the paper, searching out some bit of news which might raise my friend’s spirits, or distract him for the moment, if nothing else. It was on the sixth page that I found what I was seeking.

“Ah, here is an interesting morsel, Holmes,” I said as casually as I was able. “It is an obituary notice of an Argentinean who, if the story is to be believed, was rather remarkable. Ireneo Funes, dead at the age of twenty-one, is said to have had a memory of such singular character that he could recall anything to which it was exposed. Witnesses are quoted as saying that Funes could recall each day of his life in such detail that the recollection itself took an entire day simply to process.”

Holmes still glowered, but there was a lightening to his eyes that suggested my gambit had met with some small success. “Have I ever told you about Merridew, Watson?” I allowed that he hadn’t. “He was a stage performer I once saw, while traveling in America as a younger man. A mentalist performing under the name ‘Merridew the Memorialist,’ he appeared to have total recall. I myself saw him read two pages at a time, one with each eye, and then a quarter of an hour later recite with perfect accuracy texts he had glimpsed for only a moment.”

Had I but known of Pliny’s list of prodigious memories, Doctor Rhys, I might have suggested this Merridew for inclusion in the rolls. As it was, Holmes and I mused about the vagaries of memory for a brief moment before our discussion was interrupted by the arrival of a guest.

Our housekeeper Mrs. Hudson ushered the man into our sitting room. Holmes recognized him at a glance, but it wasn’t until our visitor introduced himself as one Mr. Dupry that I knew him. A scion of a vast family fortune, Dupry was one of the wealthiest men in London, and in fact in the whole of the British Empire.

“Mr. Holmes,” Dupry said, dispensing with any pleasantries. “I want to engage your services to investigate a theft.”

Holmes leaned forward in his chair, his interest piqued. “What is it that’s been stolen, Mr. Dupry.”

“Nothing,” Dupry answered. “Not yet, at any rate. I’m looking to you to make sure that remains the case.”

Holmes uncrossed his legs, his hands on the armrests of his chair. “I’ll admit that you have me intrigued. Please continue.”

Dupry went on to relate how a number of his peers and business associates — Tomlinson, Elton, Coville, Parsons, and Underhill — had in recent months been the victims of bank fraud. Someone had gained access to privileged financial information and used it against their interests. The amounts stolen from Tomlinson and Elton had been so relatively small as to remain unnoticed for some time, while the funds taken from Coville and Parsons were more substantial, but poor Underhill had been rendered all but destitute. After seeing so many of his contemporaries fall victim to the machinations of parties unknown, Dupry felt certain it was only a matter of time before he himself became a target, and thus his interest in securing the services of Sherlock Holmes.

Suffice it to say, Holmes took the case.

I explained to Dupry that we were still engaged in the matter of the Dockside Dismemberer, and so would have to continue to address matters relating to that investigation while beginning to look into his own concerns. We had the inquest of the fourth victim to attend that morning, after which we would meet Dupry at his home to survey the grounds and make a preliminary assessment.

At the inquest we were met by Inspector Lestrade, who seemed even more foul-tempered than Holmes at the lack of progress so far accomplished. Of substantive findings relating to this fourth victim, there were scarcely any. The body had been recovered from the Thames near Temple Stairs, in a state of early decomposition. Aside from a tattoo on the victim’s upper arm, depicting an anchor ringed by a rope of intertwining vines, there were no distinguishing marks. It was the opinion of Scotland Yard that the killer was not the so-called “Torso Murderer,” who had been depositing body parts around the greater London area for the better part of two years, given the markedly different nature of the wounds and the condition of the remains, and the suggestion in the popular press that it was Jack the Ripper walking abroad once more was not even merited with a response.

Following the inquest, Holmes and I accompanied Lestrade to the chamber in New Scotland Yard in which the remains had been laid. In all my years, both as a medical man and as a seeker after criminals, I have seldom seen so gruesome a sight. The condition of the wounds suggested that the victim had been alive for some time before expiring from them. The oldest of the wounds had begun partially to heal over, while the newest were ragged and unhealed. The police surgeon and I agreed that the killer may well have taken a period of days inflicting cuts, severing digits, and slicing off appendages, one by one, before finally delivering a killing blow.

Insult was added to injury by the innumerable tiny incisions all over the body, which could be nothing but the bites of fish that had attempted to make a meal of the corpse as it drifted in the Thames.

I had seldom seen so gruesome a sight. Little did I realize then that it would pale in comparison to what came after.

With our business at Scotland Yard completed, Holmes having made a careful study of the victim’s tattoo for future reference, the two of us traveled across town to Kensington, to the home of Dupry.

“Have you come about the position?” asked the servant who answered the door.

“What can you tell us about it?” Holmes said, carefully phrasing his response neither to confirm or deny.

The poor man seemed haggard. He explained that the under-butler had run off in the night, and that the house steward was now in the process of interviewing candidates. The servant at the door was normally occupied in the livery, and so was unaccustomed to dealing with visitors, a task which normally fell to the under-butler. When we revealed that we were not, in fact, applicants for the position, the servant apologized profusely, and ushered us into Dupry’s study.

“A damn nuisance,” Dupry blustered, when Holmes mentioned the missing under-butler. “He seemed a stout enough fellow, and here he’s disappeared without warning. If I can’t hire a trustworthy man for twenty pounds a year, where
am
I to find good help, I ask you?”

“I’m afraid I have no idea, Mr. Dupry,” Holmes answered as solicitously as he was able. “Now, with your permission, may we examine your home? In particular, can you show me where you keep materials of a, shall we say, sensitive nature?”

For the next three quarters of an hour, Dupry showed us around his home, paying particular attention to his study, and to the wall safe there. When it was opened, though, revealed to contain neatly bound stacks of pound notes, bullion, and other valuables, Dupry held up a single piece of paper as the most valuable item in his possession.

“This, gentleman,” he said, careful to keep the document’s face away from our view, “is the key to my fortune. You see, the vast majority of my liquid holdings are held in an account in Geneva.”

I was confused, but Holmes nodded in understanding. “You see, Watson,” he explained, “Swiss bankers are obliged by law to keep a numerical register of their clientele and their transactions, but are prohibited from divulging this information to anyone but the client concerned. You and I might need our balance books to access our account at Child & Co., but one would only need the appropriate register numbers to access a Swiss account, as even the bank clerk’s themselves are unaware of the identities of the clients they serve.”

“Quite right,” Dupry said, appearing impressed. He returned the document to the wall safe, careful to keep the printed side from our line of sight, and then closed the door, spinning the combination to lock it. Even with his precaution, though, I managed to glimpse the paper’s front for the briefest second, though I couldn’t begin to call to mind the words and numbers I’d seen in that instant. “And if that information were to fall into the wrong hands, I would be ruined. I suspect that my colleagues who have seen their fortunes plundered allowed information regarding their own Swiss accounts to be learned, and that the thief took advantage of the anonymity of the Swiss system.” He turned and fixed Holmes with a stare. “I keep my information safely under lock and key, Mr. Holmes. I am hiring
you
to ensure that it remains there.”

After we had completed an initial investigation of Dupry’s home and its locks, bars, and other security features, Holmes suggested that we visit some of the men whom Dupry indicated had fallen victim to the thief before.

First on our agenda was Underhill. The younger son of a well established family, Underhill lived in a large Cubitt-designed home in Pimlico. If the state of the residence when Holmes and I arrived was any indication, though, it was clear that Underhill would not be in residence for much longer. The man answered the door himself, dressed only in shirt sleeves, harried almost to the point of tears. After we explained who we were, and our connection to his associate Dupry, Underhill admitted us, and explained that he was now all but destitute. He had been forced to let the majority of his household staff go, having lost the funds with which to pay them. It had been difficult to keep them even before, though, having lost two men from the staff in as many months before his fortune was even lost.

From there, we visited the homes of Coville, Elton, and Parsons who, if they were not as badly off as Underhill, seemed hardly much better. All three, too, mentioned having lost members of their domestic staffs in recent months.

When we called at the home of Tomlinson, we found him not in, having left the city to visit the continent. We were instead welcomed by his house steward, a man named Phipps.

“What is it I can do for you, gentlemen?” Phipps asked, with more urgency than seemed necessary. Standing in close proximity, I detected a strangely familiar but confusing scent wafting from him, which it took me a moment to recognize as an exceptionally strong cleaning agent, such as those used to clean tiles in large houses. Given the size of the staff apparently on hand in the Tomlinson home, it seemed odd that the house steward, the head of the staff, would lower himself to cleaning kitchen tiles.

Holmes explained that we had been engaged by Dupry, and that in connection with that engagement were investigating the rash of bank fraud whose victims had included Phipps’s employer, Mr. Tomlinson.

For the briefest instant, I fancied that panic flitted across the steward’s face, but as quickly as it had come it had passed, and he treated us to a friendly, open smile. “I’m happy to help in any way I can, of course.” Still, I couldn’t help but notice the sunken quality of his cheeks, the sallow coloration of his skin. He was clean scrubbed, for all that he smelled like bleach and lye, but I could not escape the impression that he was less than entirely healthy.

“Tell me, Phipps, have any members of your staff gone unaccountably missing in the recent past?”

The house steward continued smiling, but shook his head. “No, sir,” he said, his voice even and level, “not a one.” He paused, and then chuckled. “I took a brief vacation myself, this past winter, to visit family abroad, but returned to my post just as expected, so can hardly be considered ‘missing.’”

As the day ended, we returned to Baker Street, to find Inspector Lestrade waiting for us.

“We’ve identified the tattoo,” Lestrade said, without preamble, “and the man.”

Holmes nodded. “So you have found a man who sailed the Atlantic Ocean as a deckhand onboard a ship of Her Majesty’s Navy, I take it?”

Lestrade’s eyes widened, and as I smiled he began to glare at Holmes. “Blast it, Holmes, how did you know that?”

“Simple observation, my dear fellow,” Holmes answered. “Now, who was our late seaman, and who was it identified him?”

Lestrade grumbled, but answered. “His name was Denham. Until a few weeks ago, he was employed as a footman in the Parsons household.”

Holmes and I exchanged a glance. “Parsons?”

Lestrade nodded. “I spoke to the house steward myself. Seems Denham just stopped showing up to work some weeks back. Stranger still, his replacement, an American chap, went missing a short time after.”

“Was this before or after Parsons discovered a portion of his fortune had been stolen?”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “Now how did you know about
that
?”

Holmes explained in cursory detail our other ongoing investigation, and in particular the fact that we had earlier questioned Parsons himself.

“Well, the steward
did
mention the theft, at that, and said that for a brief time he’d suspected the two missing men of playing a part. But Parsons had felt sure that there was no way that a retired sailor or an addled American could possibly have been responsible, and had instead blamed the whole mess on a conspiracy of the Swiss.”