Die Again, Mr Holmes Read online

  “Laudanum.”

  The chief constable tipped his chin. “Yes. It seemed to help—at first. But now—” He shook his head, swallowing. “About the same time that our Amelia died, I got wind of the smuggling that was going on. Ships that were being loaded or unloaded in the dead of night, and workers bribed to keep quiet about what they carried. Harbor officials taking pay not to ask too closely what was in certain crates or barrels. I started to look into it.” He stopped, rubbing a hand across his neck. “It’s not just the ladies who get into the habit of taking the stuff. There’s even more with the laudanum habit down at the docks, among the porters. They carry those heavy loads all day, get hurt sometimes—or just strain their backs and arms. They want to take something for the aches and pains, and the laudanum’s ready at hand, cheaper even than turning to drink. Seewald sees to that. He gives them their first few bottles for mere pennies—then, once they’ve got the habit formed and can’t stop, he starts cranking up the price.”

  “And you received word that if you continued to investigate, your wife’s laudanum addiction would prove fatal.” I didn’t even make it a question.

  Chief Constable Slade’s shoulders slumped. “That’s exactly what happened. I got a note—no name, no address—saying that if I didn’t stop looking too closely into what didn’t concern me, my wife’s medicine would get a new ingredient added to it, one that would put her to sleep permanently.” His voice turned ragged. “I’ve tried everything. Talking to Emily. Begging her to give it up. I thought of sending her to Ming’s, but she wouldn’t go.”

  I frowned. “Ming’s?”

  “Lord Lynley’s business partner. A Chinese fellow who specializes in Oriental medicine. He runs a clinic out at his place, a mile or two outside the village. Helps people to get over their addictions, weans them off the habit.”

  That tallied with Kai-chen having warned me away from Mr. Seewald’s bottle of tonic.

  Slade dragged a hand across his face. “I thought maybe he could help Emily, but she refused flat-out to even consider the idea.” He shook his head. “I’ve gotten to the point of spying on my own wife—setting my own constable to keep a watch on her, stopping her from going to Seewald’s.” His mouth twisted. “You saw how well that went. I know you were there, in Seewald’s shop yesterday. I remember seeing you. That’s why I was so angry seeing you next door with Emily. Thought you were someone Seewald had sent to sell her more of the stuff.”

  The raw misery in his eyes made anger burn its way through me. Whoever was behind this wasn’t just selling drugs, they were feeding, parasite-like, off of other people’s grief and pain.

  “Do you think Mr. Seewald is the one behind it all?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.” He seemed to debate for a moment, glancing down again at the letters on his desk from both Lestrade and Holmes. Then he looked back at me. “I suppose you may as well know, I found this on my desk this morning.”

  He reached into his pocket and drew out a single sheet of paper. I mentally ticked off the characteristics: medium grade paper and a, cheap watermark, the kind that could be purchased at any stationer’s shop in England.

  The words on it had been formed in straight block capitals, the individual lines obviously made with the edge of a ruler.

  Lord Lynley died of suicide. If you know what’s good for you and your wife, you’ll leave it at that.

  I studied the letters. Unfortunately, the effort to disguise the handwriting had been effective. I leaned towards thinking that the note had been written by a man, but I was only about sixty percent sure.

  “Have you contacted Lady Lynley?” I asked. “The last I heard, she was still in London.”

  Chief Constable Slade shook his head. “I’ve sent a telegram to the club where she’s supposed to be staying, got the address from the butler at Lynley House. But I haven’t heard anything back yet.”

  He tapped his fingers against the suicide note I’d found in Lord Lynley’s offices the night before, and I mentally re-read it, running over the typewritten lines.

  Something about it still bothered me, but my mind was spectacularly unhelpful in identifying what that something was.

  “Is that His Lordship’s signature?” I asked.

  Lord Lynley might not be the man in charge of the smuggling operation, but he might still have been involved. In which case, he could have first set fire to his warehouse the night before, then taken his own life out of shame, just as the note said.

  “Looks like it. I’m no expert, but it looks like his.” Slade shook his head. “Poor blighter was obviously in a state when he wrote it.”

  I nodded, eying the shaky writing on the signature, the way the pen had dug into the paper. That was a point in favor of believing that the note was genuine. Faking a signature was comparatively easy. Faking the emotion behind a piece of handwriting was far harder.

  “I’ll tell you this, though,” Slade went on. “Something’s changed lately.”

  “Changed? How so?”

  “More ships coming in at the dead of night. More of those so-called spa weekends at the Grand Hotel, with people of all sorts coming and staying.”

  “You think that may be how the opium is being distributed to other parts of the country?”

  Chief Constable Slade nodded heavily. “I’m almost sure it is. Though whether or not that means that Mr. Torrance is the man on top—” He stopped and shook his head.

  For all his false smiles, I wasn’t sure that I could see Mr. Torrance as a master criminal. I could, though, imagine him shooting another man in the head with very little difficulty.

  I debated, then made up my mind. “Where is Mr. Ming?”

  “Ming.” The chief constable exhaled hard, a sharp burst of air. “I know. I should be the one speaking to him. He might know more about whether His Lordship really was mixed up in the opium trade. But I’m afraid if I start asking questions—”

  His jaw tightened.

  He didn’t need to finish. If he gave even a sign that he was looking into the murky details surrounding Lord Lynley’s death, his wife could die. Would die. The forces behind this had already proven themselves more than willing to commit murder.

  “I’ll go.”

  Chief Constable Slade made a brief, jerky movement. “You shouldn’t do that. It’s not safe—”

  “Nothing about this affair is safe. Which is why I plan on being extremely careful.”

  The chief constable was right, actually. Much as I usually disagreed on principle with anyone who warned me away from danger.

  We had passed the point where I could safely keep on investigating this affair alone—at least, so long as I was on my own here with Becky. Sometime today I would have to decide whether we should even remain here in Shellingford.

  But the fact that Inspector Swafford’s brother had been here a week ago meant that I had to report everything I could learn about this matter to Holmes—and he would need as much of a complete picture as I could give.

  Chief Constable Slade gave way. “Fine. I can give you the address easy enough, but I wish you good luck. I’ve never gotten Ming to speak to me. Never so much as seen his face. He won’t see anyone directly—it’s all through his right-hand man, Kai-chen.”

  “I’ve met Kai-chen.” I glanced at the cottage next door. “If it’s all right with Becky, would you mind my leaving her here while I go and speak to them?”

  I hadn’t yet mentioned it to the chief constable, but if Mr. Ming was on a crusade to stamp out opium addiction, and if he’d recently discovered that his own business partner was bringing it into the country …

  Then it wasn’t only the mastermind behind the opium smuggling who would have had a clear and powerful motive for Lord Lynley’s murder.

  Chief Constable Slade followed my gaze, staring through the window at his wife, who was helping Becky to dress one of the paper dolls. There was so much love and desperation and longing in his expression that it was almost painful to see.


  He cleared his throat. “Let the little girl stay as long as you like. That’s the happiest I’ve seen Emily look in months.” Then he dragged his gaze away from the window and turned back to me. “Be careful. Whoever’s behind this, they’re planning something—something big. I’d say Alice Gordon got in their way somehow, and now Lord Lynley, too. Just …”

  His voice trailed off and he shook his head. “Just be careful, that’s all.”

  34. A TRUSTED POLICEMAN

  London

  WATSON

  The cold wind from the Thames stung my face as we journeyed from our Baker Street rooms to Scotland Yard, and I was grateful to take shelter in the grandly towered brick and stone headquarters of the Metropolitan Police, recently built beside the road and equally grand Queen’s Walkway along the river. We had come to visit Jack Kelly, the former police constable who, after a series of promotions and adventures with us, was now a sergeant and Holmes’s son-in-law.

  Jack could be trusted. There was no possible doubt on that score.

  Holmes announced our arrival to the patrolman on duty. We were admitted at once—such being the reputation of Holmes.

  I felt a pang of sympathy for young Jack Kelly when we found him at his desk, for though he was intent on the papers spread out before him, he looked worn and preoccupied. I realized that this must be because, for the time being, he had lost the company of Lucy and Becky, and that he did not know how the litigation instituted by Becky’s natural father would affect her future.

  “Have you heard from Lucy?” he asked.

  “A telegram. Said only that she arrived safely. You?”

  “The same. But you did not come all the way to Scotland Yard to tell me that.”

  “I came to go over the facts in the Swafford and Janine murder cases, and to ask for your assistance.”

  Young Kelly stood. “It will be quieter over here,” he said, leading us to a small interview room. We sat at the table and Jack closed the door.

  “So, here are the facts,” Holmes began. “There is a large quantity of stolen opium hidden somewhere, in a location not known to me. Swafford’s brother found it and brought a small portion to London. The two brothers left London on Christmas Day. Swafford returned to London this past Monday, the day Thomas Newman was convicted. Thursday, he attempted to sell part of the opium and was killed in Limehouse. A day later, Swafford’s fiancée, who had not seen him since Christmas Eve, was notified of his death. She and her mother went to a church nearby, presumably to pray, and both women were murdered. A card implicating Thomas Newman was found with their bodies. The church is located not far from where Swafford lived, and where Swafford’s brother brought the opium.”

  “Did you speak with Newman?”

  “We did. He denies any involvement.”

  “No surprise there.”

  “There is one more pertinent fact. Miss Janine was my client. She had become alarmed at Swafford’s absence and she approached me on the street after Newman’s trial, hoping to enlist my help in locating him. I was likely seen speaking with her. It may be that her association with me led to her murder.”

  “You couldn’t have avoided that. Not if she approached you.”

  “Nevertheless, she was my client, and she was killed.” Holmes shook his head. “But my feelings are irrelevant. I should like you to hear a hypothesis that fits the facts as stated. If you have other facts that corroborate or clash, I should like to hear them.”

  “Of course.”

  “I believe that the person or persons behind the murders are those who possess the stolen opium. They have it safely hidden, and it is a vast quantity—I am told six thousand is the number of chests that are missing and are now presumed stolen. Each chest is the size of a seaman’s trunk.”

  “Hard to relocate that many.”

  “A daunting and difficult enterprise, particularly when secrecy must be observed. So Inspector Swafford had to be killed.”

  “On the assumption that he knew the location.”

  “Then his fiancée also had to die, on the assumption that Swafford had told her the location.”

  “Once she learned of his death, the natural thing would be for her to tell the authorities all she knew.”

  “Now she cannot.”

  “And you said the card at the church implicated Newman.”

  “He denies it.”

  “He would.”

  “He maintains that the owners of the opium hired a rival gang.”

  “Any gang in particular?”

  “He would not say. But I think he would know. He appears to be regularly informed. I saw many entries on the visitors’ docket that included his name.”

  “Maybe the police will get him to talk.”

  “Possibly,” Holmes said.

  “Well, for what it’s worth, your hypothesis all makes sense to me.”

  “Thank you. Now I should like to see Mr. Newman again tomorrow. Perhaps I can induce him to say something that will help us. It would be helpful to examine the police file kept on Newman. Can you get it?”

  “I can arrange for you to see the log at Newgate. Limehouse Station will have the complete file. We only have the summary here. We could ask Inspector Plank to send over the full record.”

  “I have particular reasons for not involving Inspector Plank,” Holmes said.

  Briefly, Holmes described the incident at the Red Dragon and his conclusion that Plank, for whatever reason, had falsified the attack on his person.

  “I’ll get our file on Newman,” Jack said.

  A few minutes later Holmes had examined the summary file, put it aside, and stood. “There is one thing more,” Holmes said. “Swafford’s brother.”

  Jack eyed Holmes carefully. “Are you getting at something?”

  “As I mentioned, Swafford and his brother left London on Christmas Day. Both men were from Shellingford.”

  Jack let out a long breath. “Where Lucy is. With Becky.”

  “Swafford told his landlady that he and his brother were going home for the holiday.”

  “And only Swafford came back, so his brother may have stayed. And Lucy and Becky are nearby. And it is a small town.”

  Holmes stood. “This is a particularly dangerous affair, and we have very few among us who we can trust. When you hear from Lucy, I urge you to bid her to take extreme caution.”

  35. AN INTERVIEW WITH KAI-CHEN

  Lincolnshire

  LUCY

  Chief Constable Slade’s directions led me back into the town, but away from the town’s center and down a narrow side-street, little more than an alley, that ran between the butcher’s shop and a dressmaker’s.

  I scanned the numbers above the doorways until I reached a door that, unlike all the others in the street, was painted a bright, brilliant red.

  A sign emblazoned with the design of a Chinese-style golden dragon hung over the doorway, with Chinese characters above. Below, English lettering more prosaically announced, Tea Room.

  A faint, musical chime sounded as I pushed the door open and entered.

  The interior was dimly-lit, with heavy embroidered curtains at the windows. Chinese lanterns made of red paper hung from the ceiling. Low tables had been set up here and there, though there were no chairs, only silk cushions on the thickly carpeted floor.

  The air was filled with an exotic, faintly dusty odor, and an air of almost reverent stillness filled the room, as though we had stepped back in time—or at least, stepped entirely out of England.

  The walls were lined with shelves, some holding canisters of what must be tea leaves, others holding what looked like antiquities: a laughing Buddha made of pale cream-colored ivory; a bronze dagger with a curved blade. A wooden screen made from what looked like cinnabar stood against one wall, its surface carved with flowers and swirling vines.

  I stepped closer to the nearest shelf, studying a set of figures: two tiny bronze men seated at a bronze table, with some sort of a game board between them. Miniscule br
onze cups, for tea or maybe wine, sat near the figures’ hands.

  At the back of the room, a beaded curtain parted, and Kai-chen stepped into the room.

  He drew in a sharp breath at the sight of me, although the expression of surprise instantly flattened into one of calm scrutiny. “Burial art,” he said. He gestured to the bronze game players I had been studying. “From the Zhou period. Placed in the tombs of the dead to ensure the deceased would have friends in the next world, to share and enjoy all the same pleasures they experienced in life.” His voice was even, but I thought there was a slight twist of bitterness to the set of his mouth as he added, “If only true friendship were as easily found as that.”

  “They’re lovely,” I said.

  Kai-chen’s dark eyes continued to regard me. “You are carrying a firearm. Are you expecting to have to shoot me?”

  I was keeping my hand free to reach for the Ladysmith if need be. But it was unusual to find anyone besides Holmes or Jack who could read body language to that degree. Whatever else Kai-chen might be, he was neither stupid nor unobservant.

  “I’m hoping not to. But I have a limit on one near-death experience per twenty-four-hour period, and last night’s escapade in the warehouse fulfilled that quota.”

  A small smile might have tipped up one corner of Kai-chen’s mouth, but his gaze remained impassive.

  “We have carried out this exchange once before, have we not? I saved you from the fire. You and the child.”

  “True. But I would like to know why you sent a box full of poisonous snakes to Lord Lynley through the post.”

  The shock that crossed Kai-chen’s expression was instantly controlled, replaced a second later by the same stony calm. But I had seen it.

  “One of the adders must have bitten you. You have the bite marks there, on your wrist.” I gestured to the red swelling just visible below the cuff of Kai-chen’s sleeve. “I saw them last night, although at the time I thought you’d been burned in the fire.”

  Kai-chen eyed me. “Why have you come here?”