The Devil's Due Page 12

  Thankfully Dr Meredith was free and forty minutes later Mrs Hudson, with a worried look, ushered the renowned specialist into the sitting-room.

  Meredith was a stocky, broad-shouldered man of fifty, balding but with a ring of black curls and neatly trimmed mutton-chop whiskers. His conservative grey suit and calm manner inspired confidence, as did his large bag of very particular equipment and supplies. ‘You caught me at a good time, Dr Watson. I had planned a matinee at the opera, but the performance was cancelled,’ said he. Glancing at Holmes, who lay, eyes closed and apparently unconscious, he asked, ‘Have you given morphine?’

  I related the dosage I had administered but warned him that it was not all that effective with Holmes. The detective now rested in a kind of twilight state, fighting the drug, to which he’d objected. The files from Lestrade were spread in a jumble on his lap.

  I removed them as Meredith cut off the sleeve of Holmes’s shirt, and carefully extended the arm. He noted old needle marks and glanced at me but said nothing. Holmes’s habitual use of cocaine and morphine as a means to soothe or distract himself made sedating him when urgently needed, such as in this moment, a dangerous proposition.

  Meredith took up the arm gently and began a detailed examination. He asked how the break happened. I recounted our adventure, describing the details of the diabolical handcuffs, the ‘nippers’.

  Dr Meredith shook his head in disgust. ‘I am familiar with those restraints. I campaigned to have them outlawed. It is outrageous that our own English police would resort to such brutality.’

  Meredith laid out his tools and began a meticulous examination quite reminiscent of Holmes’s own at a crime scene. This doctor’s genius was soon evident. At times, his eyes were closed in concentration, and like a blind savant mapping a strange and complex piece of machinery in order to repair it, the fingers of one hand traced gently over Holmes’s wrist, top and then bottom, as the other hand slowly raised and lowered each of Holmes’s digits to feel the connecting movement. Intermittently, the doctor opened his eyes to make a small mark in ink on various places on the wrist.

  I knew he was mapping the carpals – an intricate constellation of tiny bones connected via ligaments and muscle to the metacarpals and phalanges which made up the fingers. Although these structures were echoed in other mammals, this abstruse but brilliant design was what, in combination with a rich concentration of nerve endings, enabled our uniquely human dexterity, and ultimately writing, art, surgery, and the playing of musical instruments. I recalled being filled with awe in medical school at the ingenious design of the human hand. What a piece of work is a man!

  ‘Callouses on the left hand,’ noted Meredith. ‘He is a string player, then?’

  I nodded. ‘The violin.’

  ‘I have dabbled on the instrument.’ Meredith looked up, his eyes landing on Holmes’s violin in a corner of the room near the window. ‘Oh, my. Is that a Stradivarius?’

  ‘Yes,’ murmured Holmes. Meredith glanced at him in surprise.

  ‘You are awake! You must be a serious player, then.’

  ‘Was.’

  ‘Was what, Mr Holmes?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘A serious player.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Well, the question is, will you play again? And my answer is this. It is uncertain but will depend partly on you. I am going to do a reduction with the help of Dr Watson, then set the bone. We will need for you to sleep through this.’

  ‘No more morphine. Urgent case,’ said Holmes, his voice slurred.

  Meredith looked at him. ‘Right now, you are not on a case. If you want to return to work, if you want to play the violin again, you will cooperate.’

  Holmes hesitated but I grasped his other arm, and without preamble dosed him further with a substantial amount of morphine. He grimaced in frustration, then went limp shortly after. I watched him carefully, taking his pulse. Slow, steady.

  ‘Is he under?’ asked Meredith.

  ‘I think so.’

  Meredith led as the two of us performed the reduction, which required me to pull on the forearm so Meredith could push the bones back into place. This took more than ten minutes. At one point, Holmes groaned. I mopped his forehead, which was streaming with sweat.

  ‘The violin. Is it important to him?’ asked Meredith.

  ‘Very. He says it helps him think. But I believe it is solace as well.’

  ‘Has he any other routes to music?’

  ‘He enjoys concerts. The opera.’

  ‘Ah, as do I. The opera especially! Do you like opera, Dr Watson?’

  ‘Sadly, it is just so much shouting to my ears.’

  Meredith smiled. ‘Give it time.’ He continued to manipulate Holmes’s wrist. ‘Did you hear of the singer who just died?’

  ‘Enrietti? Oh, yes!’

  ‘Terrible loss. Magnificent voice. I was to hear his Orfeo this afternoon.’

  ‘Sad, yes. In fact, that is our case.’

  ‘Murder, then,’ wondered Meredith. ‘Foul play?’

  ‘Yes,’ murmured Holmes. His eyes remained shut as we both looked down at him in surprise.

  ‘Well, I suppose Enrietti’s past finally caught up with him,’ said the doctor.

  Holmes’s eyes flew open. ‘What past?’

  Meredith looked at me. I shrugged. The doctor leaned in to Holmes. ‘If you keep still, I will tell you.’

  Holmes nodded, and Meredith continued his painstaking work. ‘It must have been two or three years ago. A restaurant in Venice. Enrietti was dining alone in a private room there with his best friend and rival, Calvari. They had been friends since childhood. Studied together. They had shared many bottles of wine. The waiters had been directed to leave them alone. Some time later … only Enrietti left the room alive.’

  Holmes eyes were wide open and trained on Meredith. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Calvari was believed to have choked on his food. There were signs of a struggle, but this could have been the death throes of a man suffocating. Enrietti seemed devastated. But a week later, he was given a role promised to Calvari, and it made his fortune.’

  ‘Hence the taster, Watson!’ Holmes cried. ‘Enrietti feared revenge!’

  ‘Stay still,’ said Meredith.

  ‘The police concluded … what?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘It was deemed an accident.’ Meredith was cutting small pieces of padding and inserting them into the splint, customizing the shape with precision. I had never seen this before.

  ‘How do you know this, Doctor?’ I asked.

  ‘My wife and I follow opera. I love the music; she loves the personalities.’ He smiled at the two of us. He took out gauze and what looked like piano wire and laid it all out on a table. ‘Now sit back and do not move, Mr Holmes. I am going to do something unusual – for the detective on a case, and for the violin player you wish to remain. I must ask you, how likely are you to rest and keep this arm quite still over the upcoming days?’

  ‘I will be careful,’ said Holmes.

  Behind him, I shook my head a vehement ‘No’ at the doctor. He caught this and smiled.

  ‘As I thought. This will be uncomfortable, but you must keep this wrist and your fingers quite still until the swelling goes down and I can further map this break. I will immobilize your fingers in a neutral position, temporarily, and you can hide all with a glove.’ He began cutting the wires into small pieces. From downstairs I heard the sound of a bell and Mrs Hudson answering the door. ‘But – and this is important – it is for a short time only.’

  A moment later, in bounded the two Goodwin brothers, now attired in the latest Savile Row fashions, Andrew in deep burgundy, and James in marine blue. Soigné as usual, shoes shined, the two gentlemen gave no evidence of weather, or of care. But they were excited about something.

  ‘Mr Holmes!’ cried James. ‘Doctor Watson! Look what just arrived!’ James waved a letter in one hand.

  All in a tumult, they pulled up chairs close to where Dr Meredith and I clustered around
the patient, drawing in to form an intimate circle. Only then did they notice what was transpiring.

  ‘Jove’s breakfast! What has happened to your arm, Mr Holmes?’ asked James.

  Andrew extended a hand to Dr Meredith, who was wrapping the brace carefully with gauze. ‘Andrew Goodwin. My brother James.’

  Meredith looked at the outstretched hand but continued tending to Holmes. ‘Busy here,’ he said. ‘Sit back, gentlemen, and give us room, please.’

  Only slightly abashed, the Goodwins backed their chairs away an inch or so.

  ‘Mr Holmes, we thought you might like to see this letter.’

  Holmes appraised them through the fog of pain and morphine. ‘Read it to me, Watson, would you please?’

  Andrew Goodwin hesitated. ‘Perhaps we should do this privately,’ said he.

  ‘Yes. Can this wait?’ asked James, waving at the doctor.

  Meredith threw them a stern look. ‘No,’ said he and turned back to his painstaking work

  ‘This is private enough. Read it aloud, would you please, Watson?’ said Holmes.

  I took the letter. It was written in black ink, on cream parchment, with a matching envelope, addressed to Messrs James/Andrew Goodwin. Expensive paper, but not uncommon in fine stationery shops was my guess. I read:

  Messieurs Goodwin and Goodwin—

  Do you think you have slipped unnoticed into the pantheon of angelic Samaritans who live and strive for the benefit of society? You have not. I see you.

  I see you and your self-congratulating group of reprehensible, hypocritical do-gooders who aim to cover your own sins with a camouflage of good works. It is time to face the consequences of the acts for which you strive so desperately to atone.

  I alone call you to task for the very acts which fill you with guilt and compel your pathetic efforts to remedy. You and every one of the Luminarians will die a spectacular and well-deserved death corresponding precisely to the sin which helped you to your exalted position.

  Liars, murderers, cheaters, thieves, blackmailers, philanderers – sinners of all sort, every one of you. Your days are numbered. You shall reap what you sow, when the Devil calls for his due. And indeed, sir, I am en route.

  Yours with a promise,

  Lucifer.

  I finished reading. A chill descended on the room. The Goodwins, for the first time since I had met them, seemed uncomfortable. Only Meredith, who had now taken up the first of his many pieces of wire and was spiralling it around Holmes’s index finger, seemed untouched.

  Holmes grimaced briefly in pain. ‘Let me see the letter,’ he said, and taking it up with his free right hand began to inspect it. ‘Hold the light here, Watson.’ I did so. ‘And now the envelope. Hand me my magnifier, please.’ I retrieved the glass and he placed the envelope on the back of the sofa, peering at it closely. He smelled the letter, then put it down. He sighed in frustration, then turned to the two visitors.

  ‘Why did you wait to bring me this?’ he demanded.

  James and Andrew Goodwin shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘You know of Enrietti’s death?’ said Holmes.

  ‘Word travels,’ said Andrew. The singer had only been found that morning. But murders sold papers.

  ‘Shame,’ said James. ‘That is why … that is what …’

  ‘A–B–C–D, and now E. I see. The clock is ticking towards the F. When did this letter come into your possession?’

  ‘It just came,’ said Andrew.

  ‘No. It’s been handled considerably, at the dinner table, and under a candle at night. It smells of the cologne your brother wore yesterday, but not today. I presume he has not touched it today. Do not play games with me. When did it come?’

  Dr Meredith paused, staring at Holmes in frank admiration. I waved my fingers at him to continue, and he returned to his work.

  ‘We really cannot say,’ said Andrew.

  ‘Not in front of strangers,’ said James.

  ‘Tell me now, or get out!’ shouted Holmes, the force of his anger stunning everyone in the room.

  ‘All right. The day before yesterday.’

  ‘You had it when we first met you!’

  ‘Er, yes. Well, you can see it implies criminal behaviour. We didn’t want you to think that we were in some way involved with anything of a … sordid nature,’ said Andrew.

  ‘You two defy belief! Afraid I would think ill of you if it came out that every Luminarian had a dark past? This is critical! It is not a random honour you bestow. It is not merely success and philanthropy linking these Luminarians, these victims, together. It is a shared vulnerability. A shared past crime, or a mistake – Ahhh!’ Tears sprang into his eyes.

  Meredith wired one of the fingers into place. ‘Sorry. Easy now. Just two more.’ I offered Holmes my handkerchief; he waved it away.

  ‘Oh, much more than mistakes. Crimes,’ said Andrew. ‘All our honourees.’

  ‘Some of them, very bad crimes,’ said James.

  ‘I have often thought that philanthropy was motivated by guilt,’ said I. ‘Some of the most ardent do-gooders I know have been rather heinous in reality. Their past mistakes compel them to atone for those transgressions. Sometimes at great cost.’

  ‘Thank you for that clever insight, Watson,’ snarled Holmes. It was the pain speaking. He turned back to the Goodwins. ‘Did you show that letter to my brother?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  James and Andrew looked at each other and hesitated.

  ‘Why not?’ Holmes repeated.

  ‘We … do not exactly trust Mycroft Holmes,’ said Andrew at last.

  This sentence hung in the air. In all frankness, I did not fully trust Holmes’s older brother myself. I would have difficulty to articulate why, but it had partly to do with his willingness to cause his brother harm. Holmes, however, would not hear of it.

  ‘Fools! You know what this letter refers to? I warrant you know the skeleton in their every closet. And that indeed this was a condition for being so … “honoured” as a Luminarian.’

  ‘No. It is not the first thing we looked for in the candidates—’ said Andrew.

  ‘In fact, it was not something we even thought about.’

  Holmes impaled them with a stare.

  ‘Much,’ added James.

  ‘At all!’ said Andrew.

  ‘Oh, Andrew, yes, we did!’

  ‘All right, we did.’

  ‘But we don’t actually know them all.’

  ‘Just a hint of each story.’

  ‘Stop it!’ cried Holmes. ‘It is unthinkable that you would withhold this information.’

  ‘Why? These past acts don’t point to the same person. How could that information help you?’

  ‘Cease your moving,’ said Meredith to my friend, ‘or we will be here all day. Unclench your fingers.’ Holmes glanced down in surprise. He seemed to have forgotten about his broken wrist.

  ‘Even Watson has concluded the truth,’ said he. ‘What is your agenda in choosing these compromised men?’

  ‘No agenda,’ said Andrew.

  ‘What are you two atoning for?’ I asked.

  Holmes looked at me in surprise. ‘A good question, Watson.’ He pinned the brothers with a glare. ‘Answer him.’

  James flushed deep red, and Andrew began a careful examination of a small gold ring on his fourth finger.

  ‘We have an older brother,’ he sighed. ‘He was set to inherit the title and the estate. But he was a serious man, unpleasant actually, with rather odd religious leanings. A fanatic of sorts. So, one day we hired some friends of ours who are actors. We staged a … a … thing.’ Here Andrew tried not to laugh but a giggle came from his brother. He continued, ‘We convinced our brother he was having a vision. As a result, he joined a monastery, renounced all possessions, and is a monk to this day.’

  Holmes and I stared at the brothers in amazement. Holmes suddenly laughed.

  Andrew shrugged. ‘A happy monk, from all reports.’
r />   ‘He was not a very nice man,’ said James.

  ‘So, you see,’ said Andrew, ‘not exactly a terrible crime. And we have put our fortune to good use.’

  ‘Parties and balls?’ I remarked.

  ‘Yes, pleasure,’ said Andrew. ‘But we have also provided public parks in fourteen cities, with more in the planning stages. And three libraries.’

  ‘All right, enough,’ said Holmes. ‘Are you finished, Doctor? Those wires …’

  ‘I have immobilized the fingers so that you do not move the carpals. This is for forty-eight hours only. After that, the wires will come off and you will begin rehabilitating the fingers with prescribed movements which I shall teach Dr Watson to perform. It is an unusual course of treatment but is your best chance for a full recovery. I realize you will not stop working, so these are here for protection. Do you understand?’

  ‘Ah!’ I exclaimed. ‘At least I do, Doctor.’ It was a clever solution.’

  ‘I give you a short time only, Mr Holmes. After that, you must follow my instructions, or lose your music forever. Do you understand?’

  Holmes stared at him doubtfully.

  ‘You know the legend of Cinderella? Your carriage turns into a pumpkin in forty-eight hours. That is all the magic I can provide.’

  I wondered if Holmes knew this fairy tale. Apparently so, because he nodded. ‘Understood. Thank you. But I doubt that I can clear this case in just two days.’

  As Dr Meredith began packing his medical kit, Holmes asked me to retrieve my notebook and take notes, as we would learn more from the Goodwins. But before the doctor could leave, a small commotion ensued at the front door, followed by the patter of feet up our stairs.

  Heffie O’Malley burst into the room, Mrs Hudson on her heels.

  Heffie was scrubbed clean and glowing and was wearing a nicely tailored schoolgirl uniform, her wild red hair escaping from a plait into a diaphanous cloud around her face. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes shone with excitement.