Sherlock Holmes (3 page)

He glanced in my direction and I smiled warmly. His reciprocating smile told me that he appreciated the gesture. “If you’d care to follow me?” he said, beckoning toward a side passage that would lead us from the reception lobby and into the morgue proper.

We trailed after him in silence.

* * *

Foulkes led us deep into the warren of white-tiled corridors and chambers. Everything was lit with the harsh brilliance of naked electric bulbs, causing the tiles to gleam like the porcelain scales of some vast, dormant beast.

The passages were abuzz with activity, and we were forced to stand aside whilst two porters shuffled past us bearing a litter. The corpse on the stretcher was blackened and burned, barely more than the skeletal remains of a man, but I found myself unable to avert my gaze, fascinated by the dead man’s ghastly visage, the blank stare of his empty eye sockets.

The porters scurried away down the passage with barely a word or a nod of acknowledgement. I could hardly blame them for such minor infractions, however – if ever there was a soul-destroying job, it must be this. As a doctor I had long ago vowed to heal people, to find ways to help them continue to
live
. Consequently, in a place such as this, I always had the sense of arriving too late. By the time a person’s corpse had found its way to the morgue, the only job left was to clean up after them.

We resumed our trek through the maze of rooms. After a short while I noticed that the tiled walls had given way to a series of canvas screens, and realised that the place where Foulkes had brought us was, in fact, a much larger chamber that had been segregated to create a series of smaller partitions. There must have been ten or more separate booths, each of them occupied by people both living and dead. The familiar sounds of autopsy and medical examination mingled with the muffled voices of the surgeons muttering to one another.

Foulkes navigated his way around these small pockets of industry and we followed on behind him, until, finally, we came to a side room toward the far end of the chamber, in a quiet corner away from the bustle. Here, the corpses of the three suicides had been laid out for us on adjacent marble slabs.

I had never felt the charnel-house atmosphere of the place more acutely than I did upon sight of those three unfortunates. Their remains were displayed like carcasses in the back room of a butcher’s shop: naked, uncovered, their dignity unpreserved.

Holmes immediately shrugged off his coat and, without even a courteous glance over his shoulder, held it out behind him, clearly intending for me to take it. With a sigh I did what was required, accepting it and folding it over my arm.

Unbuttoning his cuffs and pushing his sleeves up to his elbows, Holmes quietly set about the task of examining the bodies.

They were each of them in a rather sorry condition. Foulkes, clearly gritting his teeth, talked us through them in turn. “Captain John Cummins,” he said, indicating the remains of the man on the slab nearest to the wall.

“The man who threw himself into the tiger enclosure at London Zoo,” I said. That much was evident from the condition of the corpse. Even a cursory glance made it clear that the animals had done for him: his throat had been ripped out by the powerful jaws of a beast, leaving unsightly ribbons of torn, glistening flesh. Hunks had been removed from his upper left arm and his right thigh, and perhaps most disturbing of all, his ribcage was exposed on the left side, where the tigers had worried at the flesh, trying to get at the organs. The body was already beginning to show signs of decay.

“Quite so, Dr. Watson,” confirmed Foulkes. “The zoo attendants got to him as soon as possible, but clearly, he was beyond help.”

“Hmmm,” murmured Holmes noncommittally.

Foulkes eyed Holmes with what appeared to be a measure of nervousness, as if worried that he might have said something wrong. Nevertheless, he forged ahead. “This is the second victim,” he said, stepping back and indicating the female remains. “Miss Mary Temple, a former suffragette and proponent of the women’s liberation movement. She threw herself in front of an Underground train during the early morning rush.”

“Good Lord,” I said, beneath my breath. She might have been a pretty young woman once, but it was now almost impossible to tell. The impact of the engine had shattered almost all of her bones and bruised her flesh beyond recognition. Her body looked as if it had been crushed by an immense weight. Additionally, the train’s wheels had severed her right leg near the hip, leaving a ragged, sickening wound. The limb had evidently been recovered and – now blackened with soot and dried blood – lay on the slab close to where it should have been, as if willing itself to be reattached. The woman’s eyes were closed, but this was no peaceful slumber.

“Finally,” went on Foulkes, moving to stand beside Holmes, who appeared to be paying little, if any, attention to what Foulkes was saying, “this Mr. Herbert Grange, MP. Grange worked at the War Office, interviewing German expatriates. As I’m sure you’re aware from the many lurid newspaper reports, he took it upon himself to take a swim in the Thames earlier this week.”

Grange’s body was that of a man in his late thirties, but it was now grossly bloated and discoloured from the time it had spent in the water. The hair was lank; the lips, having taken on a bluish tint, were curled back in a horrible parody of a smile, and the flesh was pale and blubbery.

Holmes paced between them, stooping to examine each in turn, paying close attention to the hands, the lips, and the eyes. He seemed unconcerned by any of the obvious wounds. At one point he looked up and caught my eye, perhaps in an attempt to draw me in and seek my opinion on the bodies, but I was giving little away, and he swiftly returned to his examination.

His eyes were as sharp and observant as ever, as he circled the bodies, drinking in every detail, every clue. To Holmes a corpse was an open book waiting to be read, as telling as a written confession, and perhaps more reliable at that. From an examination of the body Holmes would be able to discern the person’s final movements, their emotive state, their financial situation – even the nature of their last meal, all without need of an autopsy. At least, I hoped he wasn’t about to press me to roll up my sleeves and set about a detailed medical examination. It had, after all, been many years since I’d had cause to apply myself to such gruesome work.

“No,” he announced, dismissing the dead captain with a wave of his hand. He turned his back on the slab. “And no again,” he said, regarding the remains of Miss Temple. He crossed to the final body, that of Mr. Herbert Grange, MP. “This one, however. This one is of interest.” He leaned closer, so that his nose was almost touching the dead man’s face.

“No?” echoed Inspector Foulkes. “In what sense do you mean ‘no’, Mr. Holmes?” He looked decidedly confused, and I felt a certain measure of empathy for the man.

“I mean, Inspector Foulkes, precisely what I say,” replied Holmes. “Those bodies are of no interest to me. It is plainly evident that there is no connection between these deaths. The manner and cause by which they met their respective ends is abundantly clear, if one simply cares to look closely enough at the facts.”

I winced at Holmes’s cutting tone. “Perhaps, Holmes, you could share with us your observations?” I said.

“Must I explain my reasoning?” said Holmes, with a heavy sigh. “It’s devilishly tiresome.”

“I fear, Mr. Holmes, that if I am expected to dismiss these deaths as you imply that I should, I must have your reasoning,” said Foulkes. “If nothing else, there are the families to think of.”

“Very well, very well,” said Holmes. He gestured to the mangled corpse of Captain Cummins. “Consider the late captain. Had he not recently returned from the front?”

“Well… yes,” confirmed Foulkes.

“Where he undoubtedly witnessed scenes of the most appalling nature. Is that not enough to shake a man’s commitment to the cause? To make him consider surrender, if it is perhaps the swiftest path to the cessation of hostilities?” The questions were, of course, rhetorical. We stood in silence for a moment, waiting for Holmes to continue.

He moved deftly between the slabs until he was once again standing over the body in question. “Now consider the evidence. There are exceedingly dark rings around the eyes, a tell-tale sign of insomnia. This man was troubled. He had not slept properly in weeks.” He lifted the dead man’s right arm, indicating the hand. “See here: the cuticles on both hands have been picked away until they were raw and bleeding – suggestive of a decidedly nervous disposition. And then, of course, there is the simple fact that any man in his right mind would not hurl himself into the tiger enclosure at London Zoo.” The timbre of Holmes’s voice had grown during the course of his explanation. “No, sir. I put it to you that this is, indeed, a clear case of suicide, brought about by a malaise of the mind, inspired by Captain Cummins’ recent exposure to the horrors of the war.”

“Shell shock?” I ventured.

“Precisely, Watson,” confirmed Holmes. “And thus of little interest. I see no conspiracy in this man’s death, other than that which one man conspires to do to another upon the field of battle, and the anguish which necessarily ensues.”

Foulkes nodded, slowly and deliberately, considering Holmes’s words. “And the woman?” he asked.

“Quite the opposite,” said Holmes, “but no more interesting because of it.” He moved across to where her body lay on the adjacent slab. “The corpse is clearly in unenviable condition, but it is plain enough to see that Miss Temple had enjoyed a far more ordered and serene existence in her final days. She had taken a position in a munitions factory, preparing shell cases for the men at the front; she lived an admirably structured life; she had recently discharged her political concerns and aired them to the nation in her letter to
The Times
. She was a woman with a bright future ahead of her.”

“But her letter to
The Times
, the one of which you speak – it essentially amounts to a suicide note, does it not, a statement to support her cause? She renounced her support for militant activism and then threw herself beneath the wheels of an Underground train,” said Foulkes.

“Indeed not, Inspector,” said Holmes, a little harshly. “If the woman had intended the missive to be, as you suggest, a suicide note, would she not have thrown herself beneath the train the very day it was published? The delay of a day suggests quite clearly that she was not, as you imply, attempting to draw attention to her cause by underlining her letter through her actions. By the time her death was reported, the edition of the aforementioned newspaper containing her heartfelt message was already serving as a wrapper to a thousand fish suppers.”

“Then you suspect murder?” said I.

“I do not,” said Holmes. “Tell me, Inspector – which train was Miss Temple awaiting when she took her unfortunate tumble from the platform?”

“The 8.22 from Tottenham Court Road,” replied Foulkes.

“Ah,” said Holmes. “As I expected. A busy train, Inspector?”

“One of the busiest,” replied Foulkes. “Hundreds of people all anxious to begin their working day.”

Holmes nodded. “Then it is clear. Miss Temple’s death is naught but a tragic accident. Her letter, as you suggest, was not a suicide note, but an attempt to begin anew. In this, Miss Temple was simply following the example of Miss Pankhurst in setting aside all thoughts of violent protest. The very fact that she had taken up a position on the production line of a munitions factory proved her point – for Miss Temple, the battle was won. The war has achieved precisely what the Suffragettes have been striving for: raising the acceptance of women in society.”

Holmes stopped for a moment, peering across at us, each in turn. “There is no evidence of suicide in this matter, Inspector Foulkes,” he said. “Only an unfortunate accident: a young woman, anxious to do her bit for the war effort and attempting to cross town to work, was jostled on a busy platform, lost her footing, and fell into the path of the 8.22.”

“But surely…” began Foulkes, before trailing off. He gaped at Holmes, utterly flabbergasted. He opened his mouth as if to speak again, and then appeared to think better of it.

I, of course, had grown used to Holmes’s more theatrical outbursts, and despite our time apart, did not find myself in the least bit surprised by his swift and precise deductions. Nor was I doubtful of their verisimilitude. I knew they could be supported by a score of further deductions that he had not seen fit to mention. “What sets this third death apart, then, Holmes? Why is Herbert Grange so different?”

I could see the appreciation in Holmes’s eyes, the twist of his lips. He’d been anticipating this question. “Isn’t it obvious, Watson?” he said, animated. “Isn’t it clear? Recall, if you will, what I said of brother Mycroft in the motorcar. He is the instigator of this little adventure, and he rarely acts without cause. I do not doubt for a moment that Mycroft is aware of the true nature of these unfortunate deaths and that – given his position of influence – Mr. Herbert Grange is the man whose demise he truly wishes me to investigate.”

“But why, Holmes?” I said, confused. “Why go to all this trouble? Why infer a connection where there is clearly none?”

“Because Mycroft suspects foul play. Because he wishes to keep the wolves from our door, and because he does not want the world at large to know that he has called me here to London with the specific objective of investigating Mr. Grange’s unquestionably suspicious death. The suicides are our cover, Watson; a concealment, a falsehood.” Holmes tapped his index finger thoughtfully against his chin.

“Then what you are saying, Mr. Holmes, is that you believe Mr. Grange to be a victim of murder?” asked Foulkes.

“That would be somewhat presumptuous, Inspector,” replied Holmes, who had returned to studying the corpse of the parliamentarian, his back to us. “I fear the body offers little in the way of motive. Where it is clear to me that Captain Cummins was accountable for his own death, and Miss Temple was not, with Mr. Grange I find myself in need of further data. Only then will I be able to establish the truth.”