Associates of Sherlock Holmes

THE CASE OF THE HAPHAZARD MARKSMAN Andrew Lane

My name is Langdale Pike. You have probably heard of me. In fact, I would be surprised if you had not. I write what are popularly known as “gossip columns” for several of the more popular newspapers and magazines available in this, the greatest city in the greatest nation of the world. From the centre of my web of information I pick up on the slightest of vibrations in strands that extend into the servants’ quarters of every large house, into the snugs and taprooms of every tavern and bar, into the fronts-of-house of every theatre and music hall of note and into the comfortable seating of every café and coffee house. Or, to put it more prosaically, from my preferred window seat in my club in St. James’s I have a network of runners who perpetually shuttle snippets of information from maids, footmen, attendants and serving girls into my hands and, subsequently, small sums of money from me back to them. There is no assignation, no affair, no gambling debt and no underhand activity of which I am ignorant – if, that is, the public would find it titillating. If not, you need have no fear. If your fumbled indiscretion with your wife’s sister or your surreptitious channelling of church funds into your own pocket would not sell a few more newspapers were it to be reported in the press then, rest assured, I am not interested. Go, as they say, and sin in peace.

Gossip is, I am convinced, one of the basic drives of humanity. Without gossip what would we have to talk about over the garden wall or across the dinner table? Only the weather, and given London’s dismal record in that regard the conversation would soon peter out. We all have a burning desire to know what members of the aristocracy, royalty, the Church and the House of Commons get up to behind closed doors. I am merely fulfilling a public service by collating and disseminating these details.

Contrary to certain canards that have been spread around about me recently, I do not, I promise you, blackmail people using the information I have about them. Blackmail is an appalling crime, and I am a law-abiding citizen. I have never taken a single shilling to suppress details of a scandal, but I have taken many shillings in the service of getting those details in front of a voracious public. These wicked slurs have, I am sure, been spread by some who have been hurt by the – to them, uncomfortable – truths I tell in print. I understand that their marriages may have been destroyed and that they may be facing financial ruin, but to them I would say that their travails are a result of their own peccadilloes. If they had not lapsed, they would not have lost so much.

Not only do I not profit from the vile trade of blackmail: my services are, in fact, taken advantage of by various guardians of law and order in London – the police, and the increasing number of consulting detectives setting up shop in Paddington and Pimlico. It is often crucial to their investigations to know that this suspect has been having a torrid love affair with that maid and that his recently murdered wife had, just prior to her death, discovered them locked in an amorous embrace. In the interests of telling the complete truth I have also, I admit, been approached by those who labour at the other end of the spectrum of legality. They, of course, do not share my repugnance at blackmail. I try my best not to get involved with these insalubrious characters. We have something of an armed standoff – I know the details of their dirty little schemes and could expose them to the police if I so chose. In fact, I have collections of information lodged with several solicitors scattered around London like so many infernal devices. If anything were to happen to me then that information would be released, and for a while the streets would be a great deal cleaner. But only for a while.

The only exception I make in this regard is a certain, shall we say, academic gentleman who occasionally seeks out my services. He is the kind of man whose mild requests have the force of barked orders, and unpleasant things happen to those who ignore those requests. Fortunately, he regards blackmail as trivial and beneath his intellect. The information with which I provide him is used in other ways that I rarely get to see. He also invites me for lunch every now and then at his club. He is a surprisingly pleasant conversationalist.

Talking of this gentleman brings me in a circle, back to the consulting detectives who seek me out and pay me for information. One in particular – a Mr Sherlock Holmes – frequently takes advantage of my services. He does not approve of me, but I am well past the time in my life when I require anybody’s approval. He finds me useful, however, and it does amuse me to see the daemons of his practical side fighting with the angels of his better nature. The poor man does suffer so.

I keep up to date with the cases undertaken by Mr Holmes by reading the accounts written by his fellow lodger and amanuensis, Dr John Watson. Often I can see within those accounts elements that I provided to Holmes but that he has, I presume, failed to explain properly to Dr Watson – preferring instead to take the credit for discovering them himself. And, who, frankly, can blame him? I trust, by the way, that Dr Watson’s skills as a physician exceed those he displays as a writer of prose. Or perhaps I am just irritated by the way his lumpen phraseology seems to catch the public imagination. Those of us who make a professional living from journalism tend to look darkly upon the fortunate amateur.

Perhaps that is why I have turned my attention now to writing up one of the times when Holmes required my assistance – and, as it turned out, for more than just information. This was during one of the periods when Watson was living separately from Holmes, thanks to a recent marriage. It was his third, I believe. Holmes seemed to have a blind spot where Watson was concerned: the man was a serial womaniser with a serious gambling problem, but Holmes never criticised him for this, as far as I know. He certainly had enough reason: Watson was always criticising Holmes for his dalliance with the needle.

At the time this particular case came to my attention Watson was out of London – holidaying in Eastbourne with his new wife. I already had a thin file on her, but I saw no need to spoil the good doctor’s marital bliss by telling him anything of his wife’s rather colourful past. Perhaps he already knew. At any rate, it was early one morning at my club when Holmes appeared, accompanied by a footman and a young woman who looked as if she had been crying for some time.

I nodded to the footman, and as he withdrew I gestured to my visitors to sit down.

“Mr Holmes,” I said, “it has been too long.”

“Not long enough for me, Pike,” he rejoined. “I apologise, by the way, for the timing of my visit. I know that the hours you keep tend to run completely counter to the hours of the civilised world.”

“And I know that you keep whatever hours you choose, without recourse to looking at any clock,” I responded. “We are both as bad as each other.”

“Certainly not,” he snapped. He had thrown himself into a chair when he arrived, but now he drew himself up and nodded his head towards the lady with whom he had entered. “This is Miss Molly Morris,” he said. “Miss Morris has consulted me on a problem, and I find I am in the regrettable situation of requiring your unique brand of assistance.”

I gazed at Miss Morris, who was wiping her eyes with a lace handkerchief. She was dressed quite cheaply, but well. I would have put her down as an assistant in a haberdasher’s shop, rather than one of those women often and confusingly described as being “no better than they should be”, and I am rarely wrong on these matters.

Holmes continued: “Miss Morris’s fiancé was killed several days ago in the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, down near the Embankment. The exact nature of his death is odd; odder still has been the reaction of the police.”

“He was shot,” she interjected forcefully. “My family has worked in fairgrounds for generations, and I’ve seen shooting galleries. I know what a rifle shot sounds like. Gordon was standing in front of me, just opening his mouth to say something, when he was shot in the chest. He clutched at the wound, and keeled over.”

“I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” I said, leaning forward and patting her hand. “I fear that Mr Holmes may have misled you, however. I know he disapproves of the way I make my living, but I do not, I assure you, either commission shootings or know anyone who carries them out. Nasty, unpleasant, noisy things.”

“You make your living by making other people unhappy,” Holmes snapped. “Nevertheless, I am aware that you have a finely tuned ear for gossip and innuendo. Miss Morris’s fiancé is of, shall we say, a higher social station than she. I would like to know whether there is any family feud, any argument over a legacy, any dubious business arrangements, or any other reason why young Mr Gordon Drake might have been shot.”

“Drake is a common name,” I pointed out.

“Indeed. But this particular family have been involved in maritime insurance for generations.”

“Ah – the Cheyne Walk Drakes, with offices in Fenchurch Street and Deptford.” I nodded. “I have indeed heard of them, but not in any way that would help in your investigation. There is, as far as I am aware, no hint of scandal in that family.” I smiled at Holmes. “I would consider them to be consumers of the work I do, rather than the fuel for it.”

“The police tried to tell me he was stabbed,” Miss Morris interjected. “They told me that some mugger tried to take his wallet, and that when he resisted was knifed through the heart, but that’s just not so.”

I patted her hand again – I wasn’t sure if I was helping, but I had to do something. “Perhaps his family were unhappy at the impending marriage,” I said, “and they were trying to kill you, but missed. Had you thought about that possibility?”

Miss Morris looked at me in shock, then buried her face in her handkerchief and descended into a peal of sobs.

Holmes gazed at me sternly. “I have made investigations,” he announced, “and I am quite certain that Mr Drake’s family were happy that he was happy, and that they had taken Miss Morris to their bosom.” He held up a hand. “And, before you attempt to suggest that someone in Miss Morris’s family – perhaps a funfair shooting booth operator – was the guiding intelligence behind the shot, I have found only happiness in the extended Morris clan at the forthcoming nuptials.”

“No jealous paramours?” I inquired.

“Gordon was my first beau,” Miss Morris stated, cheeks still damp from her tears. I glanced at Holmes, and he nodded in agreement.

“I wish I could be of more help,” I said. “The trouble is that I know nothing.” I couldn’t let the opportunity to bait Holmes a morsel pass. “And, as you well know, Holmes, I’m not the kind of journalist who would just make something up. All my stories are based on verifiable facts.”

He raised an eyebrow, but made no response. Instead he stood up. “Watson has kindly offered to travel up to London and consult on Mr Drake’s –” he paused, “– physical state in the pathology lab at Scotland Yard. I have to meet him shortly.” He turned to Miss Drake. “I shall call a cab for you, and I shall report if I make any progress.” Glancing at me he added, “As for you, Pike, shall I slip you a shilling now or merely settle your bar bill on the way out?”

“Neither,” I said, surprising myself as much as him. “Take me with you to see Dr Watson, if you wish to recompense me.”

He fixed me with a gimlet eye. “Why would you want me to do that?”

I shrugged. “Boredom. That, and a feeling that there might be something in this case of interest to me.”

“Very well,” he said, “but do not get in the way.”

Holmes escorted Miss Morris to the door of the club while I collected my various notebooks and pens together and put them carefully in the shoulder bag I habitually carried with me. Men, I have noticed, have much less latitude than women when it comes to personal items. They have both clutches and handbags to choose from when carrying their personal items, whereas we have to make do with briefcases and, in extremis, carpet bags. It seems unfair on the male sex, so I instructed a man who works in leather in the back streets around Charing Cross to construct a square bag for me into which I can fit everything than I need and that I can then sling over my shoulder with a strap. It attracts a certain amount of attention when I am out. Jealousy, I expect. Some men are undoubtedly ahead of their time. Still, Oscar Wilde has complimented me on it, so I know I am on safe ground.

I met Holmes outside the club and we walked the fifteen minutes or so along the Embankment until we reached Scotland Yard. He was recognised by the constable on the door and waved through. My experiences of police stations have not been comfortable, and so I was nervous as he led the way towards the stairs and then down into the basement. For an uncomfortable moment I thought we were heading for the cells, but in fact he took me to a large room with several long, rectangular windows along the top of one wall through which, if I strained, I could see the feet of people walking past. The walls were lined with shelves containing all manner of unpleasant surgical instruments and anatomical specimens in glass jars. Three metal tables had been placed side by side in the centre of the room, with gaps between them large enough for two people to pass, side by side. The floor was tiled in white, and several drains had been sunk into it. The purpose of the drains became unpleasantly clear when I realised that the body of a naked man was lying face-up on one of the tables. No cloth or towel covered his modesty. He was, I should make clear, completely dead. It was not that kind of establishment.

The room was filled with a strong smell of carbolic acid and formaldehyde. I took my lavender-scented handkerchief from my pocket and bundled it up beneath my nose. It did not help much.

Dr Watson was standing over the body, examining it intently and professionally. I do not believe I have described him before, and he has never described himself, so let me make the first attempt – he is a man of slightly less than average height, with a rugby player’s physique and a well-kept and luxuriant moustache. His hair is generally brushed back from his forehead, but often flops forwards. It is clear why he is so fortunate with the fair sex. Looking at him now I noticed that his sleeves were rolled up and secured with flexible metal bands and he was wearing a waxed green apron to protect his shirt and trousers from what I shall delicately refer to as the “bodily fluids” of the man on the table.

“Ah, Holmes!” he exclaimed, looking up. His attention moved to me. “And – yes, it’s Mr Pike, is not it? Langdale Pike. What are you doing here?” He moved his gaze back to Holmes. “What is he doing here?”

“Mr Pike is joining me on this case,” Holmes said, his gaze fixed upon the body. “Given that you can only spare a few hours of your precious time, and given also that Mr Pike knows more about the hidden secrets of the average Londoner than most people, it seemed logical so to do. Now, what can you tell me about this gentleman?”

As Watson pointed at an obvious chest wound, which he appeared to have methodically enlarged with a scalpel, I found myself feeling a strange mixture of interest and revulsion. The body – which I presumed to be the unfortunate fiancé, Mr Drake – was of a young man, in his early twenties I would estimate. His hair was blond and rather long, and his body shape – wide shoulders and narrow hips – suggested to me a swimmer, rather than the rugby player that Watson resembled. His eyes were mercifully closed. His skin was white on top, but this faded into a maroon colour for a distance of about two inches from the surface of the table. It was the kind of effect one would obtain if he had been lying in a pool of purple ink for a while, although I could not imagine why anyone would have done that.

Dr Watson noticed my queasy interest. “You’ve noticed how the blood settles in the body under the influence of gravity in the absence of pressure from a heartbeat,” he said, straightening up.

“In that case,” I observed, “I shall endeavour to keep my heart beating for as long as possible. It is a faintly ridiculous look, and I have no intention of indulging in it myself.”

Holmes was still looking at the chest wound, which resembled a flower constructed from dark red meat. Watson turned to join him. “A bullet has obviously entered the body here, and travelled onwards through the heart,” he said.

“The death of this man was almost certainly intentional, then,” Holmes mused. “If the shooter had been aiming at someone else in the crowd then it is extremely unlikely that he would have so accurately hit this man’s heart.”

“I have found a corresponding entrance wound in his back, just to the right of his left scapula.” Watson slid his hands beneath the body and turned it half-over. “Here, take a look.”

Holmes bent over eagerly. I stepped back. This was not the kind of thing I had anticipated to be doing that day. Or, indeed, any day.

“The exit wound is lower than the entrance wound,” Holmes observed. “The shot must have come from above.”

“Indeed,” Watson said. “That was my assumption also.”

“Assume nothing,” Holmes snapped. “It is a valid deduction based on evidence to hand.” He straightened up. “Did you recover the bullet?”

Watson nodded. Letting the body fall back to the table with a flabby thump reminiscent of a large fish hitting a fishmonger’s slab, he crossed to a table at the side of the room and picked up a glass vial. Inside was a twisted piece of metal: brass or copper, I estimated, based upon the colour.

“Quite a soft one,” he observed. “Designed to deform as it travelled through the body. Its velocity had slowed so much that it was caught by the man’s cigarette case. Its diameter is slightly less than half an inch, which suggests that the weapon that shot it was a Martini–Henry rifle or something similar. It’s certainly bigger than the .303 rounds fired by the Martini–Enfield or Lee–Enfield rifles.”

“That would certainly have the range,” Holmes mused. “The Martini–Henry is sighted to 1,800 yards.” He nodded decisively. “Very well: are there any other points of interest to which you would draw my attention?”

Watson shrugged. “The state of the body is similar to half a hundred I saw in Afghanistan.” He clapped his hands and then started to pull off his apron. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have a holiday to return to.”

“Would it have been a difficult shot, in your estimation?”

Watson was, by now, rolling his shirtsleeves down and fastening his cufflinks. “Not if the shooter was a practised hunter – big game in India or deer on the Scottish Highlands, it makes little difference.”

“Distance?”

“A shot like this, taken with a standard rifle by an experienced marksman, could be accomplished accurately – by which I mean within an inch of the aim point – over, perhaps, five hundred yards.”

Holmes glanced over at me. “I do not suppose that you recognise this man from any of your… regular haunts?” he inquired.

I shook my head. “Absolutely not. I would have remembered such a noble brow, and such a fine head of hair. And, of course, those muscular shoulders.”

“Indeed.”

By now Watson had pulled his jacket on, picked up his bowler hat and his medical bag, and was heading for the door. He turned, in the doorway, as if expecting Holmes to say something – “Goodbye”, perhaps, or “Thank you!” – but his friend was frowning and looking at the floor. Instead, I waved at the good doctor, and he left with a scowl on his face.

“We must go to the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens.” Holmes said. “I need to see the scene of the crime.”

We left the unfriendly edifice of Great Scotland Yard behind us and Holmes hailed a cab to take us to Vauxhall. It was late afternoon, and as the sun began to dip behind the roofs of the buildings, I drew my coat closer around me.

Characteristically, Holmes did not seem to feel the cold. He did not, I had noticed, seem to feel much of anything. I envied him that. I felt too much of everything – my mind is vulnerable to insults and slights that the average man would shrug off, and my skin sometimes feels as if it has been sanded down to a tenth of its previous thickness. I had to try five different laundries before finding one that uses just enough starch to keep my collars and cuffs stiff but not so much that it makes me come out in a rash.

We left the cab at the corner of the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, and entered via a gap in the low stone wall and tall hedges that surrounded the area. Lanterns had already been lit and were hanging from posts, and there were enough people promenading along the paths and sitting or lying around blankets and picnic hampers on the grass that it was beginning to look crowded. A band was playing off to our right, and a puppet show was taking place in a booth to our left. I had seen similar scenes many times over the past few years – carefree Londoners enjoying their free time. It made me wistful. I wish I could join in, but I am not a gregarious man.

A young lad in a cloth cap passed by. He winked at me. I was about to wink back when I remembered that I was on what I can only describe as “duty”. With a tinge of sadness in my heart, I looked away.

Holmes pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. Unfolding it, he glanced at the illustration upon its surface. He glanced around.

“According to this picture, which I had Miss Morris draw for me, she and her fiancé were standing about a hundred yards away from here, in this direction.”

He set out in a straight line across the grass, nearly stepping on plates of food or knocking over bottles as he went. A chorus of complaints rose in his wake. Instead of following and apologising – which I suspect Dr Watson would have done – I diverted around the edge of the grass until he stopped, and then found a path to him that offended the least number of people. I have no problem with offending people, by the way – I merely prefer to do it at long range, in print, and to get paid for it.

“This is the spot, as near as I can tell,” he said, looking around. We were over towards the edge of the grassy area, near to the bushes that marked one of the Pleasure Gardens’ borders. “Miss Morris stated that her fiancé was facing her, and she was facing away from the bushes. She said that she remembered seeing that church steeple –” he pointed into the distance “– directly behind his head. Now, you shall be Miss Morris and I shall be her fiancé.”

“I would not have it any other way,” I murmured as he grabbed me by the shoulders and positioned me. He was a tall man – taller than Miss Morris’s fiancé – and so I could not see the church spire behind his head, but I found that if I moved my own head then I could spy it over his shoulder.

Holmes pointed over my own shoulder. “Based on the downwards trajectory of the bullet, the shot can only have come from the roof of that building.”

I turned to see where he was pointing. Over the hedges I could see the top of a brown stone building with thick sills above narrow windows. They made the building look as if it was frowning heavily. “We need to gain access to that roof, in case the shooter has left any evidence behind.”

“You do that,” I said, catching sight of one of the Garden’s attendants, obvious in his striped shirt and cap. “I shall go and question the natives.”

Holmes bounded off without a backward glance, while I raised a hand to attract the attendant.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked, approaching. “Directions to various entertainments or cafes, perhaps, or just a potted history of the gardens themselves and the famous people who have visited in the past and continue to do so?”

“Perhaps another time,” I rejoined. “I am assisting the police with their investigations into the recent death of a young man.” I felt no guilt at saying I was assisting the police – I was assisting a man who was assisting the police, and that seemed good enough. I once danced with a man who’d danced with a girl who’d danced with the Prince of Wales, which leads me to tell people that I got close to dancing with the Prince of Wales – it is a similar situation.

He winced. “Ah, yes. We have been instructed not to talk about that, sir. Bad for publicity, if you see what I mean. I believe the owners of the gardens have impressed upon the owners of the city’s newspapers that their regular advertisements would be stopped if the newspapers carried anything more that a cursory report. People would not like to go to a place where someone has recently died.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “The general public, in my estimation, have a vein of morbid curiosity running through them like the letters in a stick of Blackpool rock.” I slipped a coin into his hand with a well-practised motion. I suspect I could be a theatrical magician and prestidigitator with little or no practice. “Was this where it happened?”

“It was, sir,” he said, slipping the coin into his pocket with a similarly smooth motion. Perhaps we should form a double act. “The young man was just over there, on that patch of grass. Some say that he was shot. With a bullet! Others say he was stabbed, or suffered a sudden haemorrhage.”

“Indeed. And if a gun was fired, did you see where the shot might have come from?”

He shook his head. “There was nobody around holding a gun, and nobody did a runner.”

“Thank you,” I said, and started to turn away.

Perhaps he did not think he’d given me enough value for my money, because he added: “Of course, if the man was shot then another two feet to the left and it would have been a greater tragedy. Not that this was not a tragedy, but the Earl of Montcreif was standing just beside the young man.”

“Oh, was he?” I asked. That was, indeed, worth the money. “And what did he do?”

“Like everyone else, sir, he legged it.”

“As one would,” I observed.

I waited, watching the crowd and thinking, until Holmes returned.

“Some scratches on the stonework,” he said, his face contorted into a frown, “and some scuffing in the moss suggestive of footprints, but nothing I could use to make an identification or further the investigation.”

“I have found out something rather interesting,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?”

“You can remove that sarcastic tone from your voice. I have an intellect, you know, even if I use it in ways you disapprove of.”

He smiled slightly. “I apologise if I gave offence. I am too used to being with Watson. You do have a fine mind, Mr Pike, otherwise I would not have let you join me on this investigation. And as for disapproving of what use you make of it… well, on the list of people in London whom I disapprove of, your name appears far down the list.”

“I shall take what crumbs of comfort I can from that,” I said. “What I discovered is that the Earl of Montcreif was also in the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens at the time the fatal shot was fired, and was standing very close to Mr Drake.”

Holmes shook his head. “I have already established to my own satisfaction, based on the accuracy of the shot, that Mr Drake was the intended victim. This was not an accidental shooting, with the shooter firing at the Earl of Montcreif and missing.”

“I would agree with you,” I said, “except that I happen to know that the earl’s valet took several items of jewellery belonging to his master to a pawnbroker’s in Mayfair yesterday morning. The cash value was in the order of ten thousand pounds.”

“And how do you know this?”

“I have my sources. Knowing when the gentry are short of cash or in need money in a hurry has led to a number of my columns.”

He stared at me fixedly, but I could see that his mind was elsewhere. “There is no connection that I am aware of between the Earl of Montcreif and the unfortunate Mr Drake, although now that I have been made aware of this information I will need to check. I cannot believe that the earl would have paid for Mr Drake to be shot and then stood beside him – he would have been far better off establishing an alibi some distance away.” He raised his head and gazed upwards, eyes half-closed, seeking inspiration. “Does the Earl of Montcrief have any, let us say, ‘habits’ that would require him to spend a great deal of money in a surreptitious and rapid way?”

“If you are asking whether he has a mistress, frequents les grandes horizontales or gambles excessively then the answer is ‘no’. The earl is one of the straightest members of the nobility that I have ever encountered. There is not one whiff of scandal about him.”

He nodded. “Very well – I shall make inquiries of my own. I suggest you return to your club and await my instructions.”

He turned and strode off, leaving me seething with anger. “Instructions”, indeed! What was I – his lapdog?

I did indeed return to my club. It was night by then, and so I ate a small plate of turbot and new potatoes, drank half a bottle of Bollinger Blanc de Noirs and settled down to make notes on my next set of columns.

It was after midnight when a small child in ragged clothes appeared at my side.

“Does your mother know you are out and about at this time of night?” I inquired.

“I do not know where she is,” he rejoined, “so I do not think she knows where I am.”

“A fair point well made,” I said. “How did you get in here?”

“Through the cloakroom window.”

“How very enterprising. I presume that you have a message for me from Mr Holmes?”

His eyes widened. “You as bright as ’e is, then? Cor!”

I sighed. “What is the message?”

He handed over a dirty scrap of paper. I doubt that Holmes would have let it go in that state; I can only assume that its passage from him to me in the pocket of this ragamuffin had caused its fall from grace.

He kept his empty hand extended. I waited with an eyebrow raised, but he obviously was not going to feel any embarrassment, so eventually I gave him a half-shilling.

“Thanks, mister,” he said with a smile that would have been dazzling if he had not lost most of his teeth. A moment later he was gone.

I queasily unfolded the paper. It said, in Holmes’s characteristic scrawl:

There followed a list of names, some of whom I recognised as being members of high society and the nobility. By sending a footman to retrieve the club’s copy of Who’s Who from the library, I discovered that the remaining ones were largely industrialists and financiers, many of them ennobled or otherwise decorated by our gracious sovereign.

I know that Holmes keeps many files in Baker Street containing information on the criminal underclass (and, indeed, overclass, given that illegal and immoral behaviour spans all levels of society to my certain knowledge). I have my own files, but I keep them in my head. That way they cannot be stolen. Closing my eyes, I walked through the house in which I was born and lived for the first twenty years of my life. In this still-vivid memory I place different facts that I wish to remember in particular places in that imaginary house. I have found that it makes it easier to recall all of the details relating to, for instance, Lord Cathcart if I place them all in a cart, just outside the kitchen door, where the cat used to sun itself in the afternoons. Cat-cart, do you see?

By traversing my imaginary house, I retrieved details of the lives of all the names I knew on the list. A flurry of telegrams sent by another of the club’s footmen to my various agents and informants around this fair city elicited, within a few hours, answers on the names that I did not know.

The sun was shining over the top of the building opposite, casting an unwelcome roseate glow into the club’s writing room, when I was able to pen a simple telegram to Holmes:

I could just have said “All of them”, or even just “All” in order to save money, but I knew that Holmes would appreciate accuracy over brevity and I have, sadly, always managed to use a hundred words where ten would have done. Well, I say “sadly”, but when one is paid by the word then one quickly learns to describe things as completely and redundantly as possible. Even simple words like “a” or “the” are cash in the bank, and they are far easier and quicker to write than a word such as “farinaceous”.

I looked at the clock; it was half-past nine in the morning. Assuming it would take an hour for the telegram to get to Baker Street, and that he lived twenty minutes away by cab, I expected to hear from Holmes, or even see him in person, by eleven o’clock at the very latest. Perhaps I was being grandiose (something to which I admit I am prone) but I felt that I had provided him with interesting, if not crucial, intelligence.

It was one minute to eleven when Holmes strode into the club and up to where I was sitting, eating a madeleine cake and sipping at a small, dry sherry. To clarify: it was I who was eating the cake and drinking the sherry, not him. I’m not sure I can ever remember seeing Holmes take sustenance.

“We do not have much time,” he snapped.

“Speak for yourself,” I said, taking a rebellious sip from my glass. “Sit down and tell me what you have discovered. If I am to go anywhere with you then it will be in full possession of the facts, not blindly like poor Dr Watson.”

With poor grace he flung himself into a chair. “Two lines of investigation have intersected,” he said. “Firstly, I have discovered that over the past six months there have been a spate of murders in the capital in which there has been no clear motive and no obvious suspects. All of the deaths occurred in public places, and all were shootings, apparently from a distance.”

“Intriguing,” I said, and indeed it was. “However, given that I know you habitually scour the newspapers for intriguing or eccentric events, and given also that certain sergeants and inspectors within the Metropolitan Police appear to have hansom cabs on standby so that they can easily consult you when they have reached their intellectual limits, which seems to happen with monotonous regularity, I am forced to wonder how this list of mysterious murders has escaped your attention.”

He scowled. “Partly I am to blame for that – I have, until a few days ago, been investigating a case with international ramifications that has quite taken up my attention, involving the Archbishop of Canterbury and a basket of hallucinogenic mushrooms. Also, the police have been conspiring with the owners of the various public spaces to keep the information out of the newspapers. The police – or, rather, their government masters – fear widespread panic at the thought of a random marksman at loose in the capital; the owners of the public spaces – which include parks, theatres and funfairs – also fear a sharp drop in their revenues. While a small unit within Scotland Yard has been tasked with urgently finding this sharpshooter, efforts have been made to suppress any mentions in the newspapers and to class the deaths in other ways – stabbings, muggings and the like – and to dissuade the families of the victims from saying anything. I have also sensed, but have no proof, that bribes have been paid in order to suppress the facts. The police did not consult me for the simple reason that they were forbidden from discussing the details of the case with anybody outside the Yard. For the past few hours, I feel as if I have been navigating my way through a fog that deliberately shifts in order to confound my navigation!”

I nodded, remembering my discussion with the attendant in the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. “You mentioned two lines of investigation. What was the other one?”

“It was the one provoked by your own fact-gathering activities. You recall I sent you a list of names of rich and influential personages?”

“Indeed.”

“Each name on that list has recently paid over a large sum of money to some unidentified person or organisation.”

“I know,” I said. “I told you that.”

“What you had no way of knowing was that each of those names was standing near to one of the unfortunate victims of the shootings at the exact time they were shot.”

Holmes sat bolt upright, fixing me with his challenging gaze. I felt an unaccustomed sense of burning excitement flowing through my veins. “So, what you are suggesting, I presume, is that the shootings were a combination of demonstration and warning,” I said. “I would say that the poor victims had been chosen at random, but that is not true. They were chosen because they were standing near a rich personage, and who would shortly afterwards receive a blackmail demand – ‘Pay us £5,000 or you will be next – and we have shown that we have the capability and the intent’!”

“Exactly.” He shook his head in grudging admiration. I could see a half-smile on his face. “The problem with classic blackmail, of course, is that if a potential victim refuses to pay then there is precious little reason to go ahead and publish the incriminating material. The potential victim will certainly not pay after the event, so the action makes no profit while exposing the erstwhile blackmailer to risk. The only two reasons to go ahead are to take revenge on the potential victim for failing to co-operate and to provide an example for the next victim. This scheme, by contrast, warns the target in advance of what will happen to them if they do not pay.”

“How ingenious,” I said.

“Oh,” Holmes added, “and you were mistaken. In at least some cases the victims were forewarned. I deduce that this was to deliberately ‘soften them up’, as the phrase goes, and also to potentially avoid a needless shooting if they paid up promptly. However, knowing the blackmailer’s modus operandus gives us our chance to capture the villains behind this callous scheme.”

“How so?” I asked, realising as I did so that I was falling into the same role that Dr Watson played in this relationship – asking questions and making admiring statements.

“I had been wondering exactly how and why the blackmail victims were chosen. I deduced, in the end, that they were selected after their names appeared in one of the very newspapers for which you write your shoddy little columns.”

“Have a care, Holmes,” I murmured.

“In each case, the names of the blackmail victims appeared on the front page exactly five days before the deaths of the bystanders occurred. Inevitably, the appearance of the name was connected to some mention of their wealth or importance.”

“And so you have deduced the next potential blackmail victim,” I said.

“I have,” Holmes said. “It is –”

“– The Right Honourable Quentin Furnell,” I said.

Holmes gazed at me for a long moment. I think – I hope – he was surprised, although his expression rarely gives anything away. “You obviously recall that his name was on the front page in regard to a question raised over the large number of shares he has in a coalmining company whose business affairs he recently defended in Parliament,” he said eventually.

“And I also happen to know, based on the research I do for my ‘shoddy little columns’, that he will be attending a charity benefit at the Prince’s Theatre tonight. Given the five-day gap between the appearance of his name and the event, the conclusion seems obvious.”

“Can you obtain a ticket for me to this benefit?” Holmes asked. “I could ask my brother, but he would only tell me to stay out of the affair and pass my conclusions to the proper authorities.”

“Which raises the obvious question – why don’t you?”

He leaned back in the chair and put on an air of casual disinterest. “If I were the person who might end up in the sights of the blackmailing marksman,” he said, “I would prefer to think that my survival lay in the hands of Sherlock Holmes, not the Metropolitan Police.”

“Also,” I ventured, “despite Dr Watson’s curious belief that you care little for money, and undertake these cases for sport, in fact you are running a business, and if you can demonstrate to the Right Honourable Quentin Furnell that you have saved him from attempted blackmail then he might well divert a fraction of the money he would have spent on paying the blackmailer to your account. Better that than the Police Benevolent Fund.”

“Watson is curiously naïve about the way the world works,” he said softly, “and besides, I have found it best not to mention money too often in his presence. He has –”

“Issues to do with horses,” I murmured. “I quite understand.”

“And I am sure I can count on your discretion in this case,” he added.

“Mr Holmes, you of all people should know that I have no discretion. It is how I earn the money that keeps me in cake and sherry. In this case, however, I am pleased to make an exception.” I thought for a moment. “Yes, I could obtain tickets for both of us, but alas they would not be near the Right Honourable Quentin Furnell, and thus we might be too far away to save the innocent victim. We would need to be close to Furnell, which means that we might have to take him into our confidence.”

“A fair point.” He grimaced. “As a rule, I am generally not in favour of telling those involved too much, but in this case it might be wise.”

And so it was that, several hours later, I found myself in the front row of the Circle of the Prince’s Theatre. Tragically, I was not wearing my finest evening dress – the one that has been known to make grown men weep with the extravagance of its material and the skill and daring of its cut. Neither was I wearing the deep violet cummerbund and bowtie that set it off so beautifully. Sadly, neither of those items were baggy enough to cover up the undergarment of varnished leather and multiple layers of silk that I was wearing underneath, which is why I was wearing a cheap ensemble of the kind that I would normally not have been seen dead in – an unfortunate phrase, I know, but it seems apposite. Following my intervention, Holmes had thrown himself wholeheartedly into a plan to catch the killer in the act without risking the life of a member of the public. With the baffled collaboration of the Right Honourable Gentleman in question, several of his party, including his stately wife and almost equally stately daughter, were dropped from the trip to the theatre, leaving several empty seats, while the occupied seats around him were filled with other agents and associates of Holmes wearing protection that would apparently be proof against bullets of the calibre used. I, sadly, was one of those associates, which meant I was sitting there sweating and looking almost as large as the Right Honourable Gentleman’s wife would have done.

“My research indicates that the marksman invariably shoots someone within six feet of his blackmail target,” Holmes assured me, “and one who is not related or known to the target. All of the seats within that range are occupied by my people. There is no risk to anyone else in the theatre.”

“If you are right,” I pointed out.

He looked at me as if he did not understand my words. “Of course I am right,” he said.

“I cannot help noticing that the protection is confined to my torso, leaving my head and limbs exposed.”

“The marksman has, to date, always shot the body rather than the head. The body is a larger target, of course, but there may also be an intention to make it less obvious that something has happened. With a bullet to the body, the victim slumps or falls, and that might be blamed on all manner of things. With a shot to the head the effects are… let us say… considerably less ambiguous.”

The performance was a collation of short scenes from Shakespeare, Marlowe and Johnson, interspersed with sonnets set to music by various well-known composers. It was not really my cup of tea. I spent much of the first half surreptitiously gazing around the theatre looking for the marksman, knowing that Holmes would be restlessly exploring the front and rear of house.

And all the time I was anticipating the impact of a bullet to my chest or, worse, to my head. I was sure I could trust Holmes’s deductive powers, but it was not him the killer was aiming at.

Two seats to my right, Quentin Furnell was looking distinctly sick. He kept sipping from a hip flask; I thought I could smell brandy. I noted that down for future use.

It was during a dramatic interpretation of the storm scene from King Lear that I noticed something amiss. To each side of the stage and further back, above the second box on either side, incandescent electrical spotlights were being controlled by men in hanging chairs. They were dressed entirely in black, so as not to distract the audience from events occurring on stage, but that process seemed to be breaking down on my right, where one of the spotlight operators was engaging in a tussle with a man who had apparently climbed down from the upper circle and clambered across to the spotlight. The tussle was causing the light to swing wildly around. I realised two things simultaneously: the man who had clambered down from the Upper Circle and instigated the fight was Holmes; and the man he was fighting with was clutching what appeared to be a rifle.

The audience had noticed something amiss by now. Some were leaving their seats, but others were craning their necks to get a better view. On stage poor Lear and his Fool were stuttering to a halt.

I saw Holmes swing his fist. The black-clad murderer and blackmailer ducked and twisted, trying to send Holmes falling to his death. The wildly swinging spotlight suddenly played across my face, blinding me momentarily. I heard several shots – the struggle between the two men had probably caused the marksman’s finger to inadvertently tighten on the trigger. I presumed that his plan had been to use the sound of the theatrical thunder to cover the noise of his shot. By the time my vision cleared the audience was panicking, and the marksman had Holmes’s throat in one hand while his other hand was still clutching the rifle. Quentin Furnell had sprung from his seat and was struggling along the row away from me and towards the nearest aisle.

The marksman swung the rifle and caught Holmes in the face. As Holmes automatically raised his free hand to protect himself the marksman swung the weapon around, aiming straight at Furnell’s chest.

“Down!” I screamed at Furnell, abandoning, for the sake of brevity, “Mr Furnell”, which is the Debrett’s approved form of address for a Privy Councillor. I dived towards him and pushed him in the middle of his Right Honourable back. He sprawled forwards, pitching into the velvet seats. I looked back up at the suspended fight, just in time to see a flash of light. Something struck me in the centre of my chest, pushing me back. I fell. My chest felt as if a horse had kicked it. I could hardly take a breath, the pain was so intense.

By the time I could pull myself to an upright position, most of the audience had left and the suspended spotlight and seat arrangement was empty. I clutched at my chest, and found a large hole in my starched shirt, a great deal of shredded leather and silk, and a still-hot bullet, but no blood.

I looked around, and found Holmes sitting a few rows behind me.

“I take it that everything has concluded satisfactorily?” I asked.

“The blackmailer is in custody,” he said, “and, thanks to your actions, the Right Honourable Quentin Furnell is alive and well.” He stared at me, and there was a curious expression on his face. “I sometimes need reminding,” he said, “that events do not always follow their predicted course. Random incidents, such as the inopportune and unintended tightening of a finger upon a trigger, can sometimes lead to unanticipated but tragic outcomes that logic can neither foresee nor prevent. I have learned something today, and for that – and your invaluable help – I thank you.”

I thought about some of the things I had seen as I had looked around the audience earlier – several well-known people together in boxes who should not have been seen together at all, and people with their wives or husbands beside them who had nevertheless been casting loving glances at others nearby. I had made copious notes – mentally, of course – and I could already anticipate a series of columns appearing in the newspapers in the near future.

“Glad to help, Mr Holmes,” I said. “Glad to help.”