Barry Day - Sherlock Holmes and the Alice in Wonderland Murders

Tonight I had little to complain about. My friend was dressed as formally as if he were about to attend a society soirée . Catching my appraising glance, he smiled. “This is no evening for fancy dress, Watson. Our business is to unmask not to don the motley. Do you have your service revolver about you? Good. Then let us have our day in Court …”

The waiting carriage was soon clip-clopping its way through London’s back streets towards the East End. Holmes had been adamant that we should leave our arrival until late. “On this occasion, old fellow, let darkness be our friend and give us the element of surprise. I know from my own expeditions how difficult it is to detect movement through that maze of back streets and during the daylight hours there will be too many eyes to observe and warn Moriarty of our presence.”

As a result the clocks were striking their various versions of ten as we made our way through the narrow mean streets of south east London. The city itself offered its usual collection of sepia snapshots as we passed through. Young men bidding each other a tipsy ‘Goodnight’ outside a tavern … elegant carriages waiting for a theatre to ring down the curtain … ladies of questionable origin parading under the gas lamps … pinched looking clerks scurrying home after an endless and poorly paid day. It was no wonder, I reflected, that Mr. Dickens had found so much material from which to weave his tales.

I became aware that the carriage had come to a halt. “The rest of the way on shanks’s pony, I think, Watson,” said Holmes. “If my calculations are correct, Royston Court is only a street or two from here and I made arrangements to meet — ah, here is Lestrade.”

As we descended the Inspector was waiting to greet us with half a dozen uniformed constables carrying bull’s-eye lanterns.

“Studied the area very thoroughly, Mr. ’Olmes, as you requested and ‘Awkins here knows it like the back of his hand. Seems he was brought up in these parts.”

A thin faced middle-aged constable stepped forward and respectfully touched the brim of his helmet to us.

“Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson, an honour to be of assistance.”

“Never mind that, ‘Awkins, get to the point,” Lestrade interrupted gruffly.

“Well, gentlemen, the locals reckon that way, way back this part of the river was considered a bit special. Lots of big houses and all the toffs going to and fro. But there was one house that they all gave a wide berth …”

“Royston Court,” Holmes interjected, more as a comment than a question.

“That’s right, Mr. Holmes,” said Hawkins, clearly pleased to see Holmes living up to his reputation.

“The Roystons had arrived here from nobody knew where and built this regular mansion right on the water. Most of their visitors seemed to arrive by boat and they kept themselves pretty much to themselves. Of course, that got everybody talking from all accounts and when on certain nights strange noises were heard and lots of lights, there was talk of witchcraft and the Black Sabbath.”

“Lot of stuff and nonsense, if you ask me,” Lestrade snorted.

“Very likely, Lestrade,” Holmes cut him off. “As Watson will tell you, I am no believer in the supernatural myself but it has often been used as an effective defence by those who — for whatever devious reasons of their own — require privacy. Pray continue, Hawkins. The concise nature of your narrative might be an object lesson to others.”

I turned to see how Lestrade was taking this rebuke before I realised that Holmes was looking quizzically in my direction!

“It all came to a head when a woman’s body was found floating off the jetty at Royston Court with some strange marks on it. The police couldn’t rightly prove it had come from there but there was such a hue and cry in the local community that it wasn’t long before the Roystons did a skidaddle, lock, stock and barrel. Went as sudden and secret as they arrived. And that was fifty — sixty years ago. I remember my granddad telling me the tale often enough.”

“Since when, no doubt, the place has been empty. No one wanted to buy a house with possible Satanic associations, until — a year or so ago — an anonymous vendor, whom no one has ever laid eyes on, pays cash and ferries his effects in by the river entrance at dead of night. Since when, the shutters have all been drawn, no contact has been made with the outside world — which has no desire to make contact in the first place anyway.”

It was amusing to see the constable’s expression so closely resemble the one I had seen on countless other faces.

“But how did you know, Mr. Holmes? That’s exactly what happened.”

“Once one is given a piece of the puzzle and knows the designer, Hawkins, it is relatively easy to deduce the rest of the picture.”

Then, turning to Lestrade — “I think you will find that the lease was taken up within days of the arrival in this country of one John Moxton.”

To which Lestrade — looking like the cat who had swallowed the cream — replied — “As a matter of fact, Mr. ’Olmes, I’ve had the local records checked and …”—here he consulted his notebook — “the said property was taken on a shortlease in the name of one Jabez Milverton. Now, what’s so funny about that?”

And, indeed, I found it hard to understand why Holmes should have given himself over to that fit of soundless laughter that showed he was truly amused.

“One must give the devil his due,” he replied, ceasing as abruptly as he had begun, “but surely you appreciate the irony, Watson? Not only has our mutual friend retained the ‘J.M.’ but he has made up this new identity from two of our more celebrated cases. Jabez Wilson from the affair of the spurious ‘Red Headed League’—not exactly a common Christian name, I think you’ll agree — and then he purloins the surname from the king of the blackmailers, Charles Augustus Milverton, the worst man in London — or perhaps I should say, the worst but one. You know, Watson, I shall be almost sorry when this affair is over. It is definitely not without its points of interest.”

At that moment it came home to me what we were doing in this squalid London side street and I had a vision of a young woman in desperate need.

“Come along, Holmes,” I said, perhaps more brusquely than I had intended, “this is neither the time nor the place to stand around analysing the mental aberrations of a lunatic. There is work to do.” And to emphasise the point I took out and checked the mechanism of my service revolver.

“You’re absolutely right, old fellow.” Holmes laid a reassuring hand on my arm. “Hawkins, is there anything further to which you wish to draw our attention?”

“Well, Mr. Holmes …” the constable sounded diffident for the first time — “this is more hearsay, like, but a mate of mine when we were kids once claimed that he’d sneaked into the place and he said it was really creepy, like one of those houses at the fun fair. He said he couldn’t wait to get out of it. Mind, he probably said that to scare us all. I remember him saying — ‘The people who lived there must have been mad.’”

I was the only one close enough to hear Holmes murmur to himself — “‘How do you know I’m mad?’ said Alice. ‘You must be,’ said the Cat, ‘or you wouldn’t have come here.’”

Then to Lestrade — “Lestrade, post your men at every point. Watson and I will use the ground floor window. Give us five minutes, then break in the front door. The place appears empty but then appearances, as we know with this particular gentlemen, can be deceptive.”

Moments later we were hurrying through the swirling mist that evening had brought to the river. Every now and then I heard the hooting of the boats still plying their trade on London’s great waterway, warning each other of their presence. For some strange reason I found myself thinking of mythical beasts on Loch Ness singing their siren song. How much had happened since that abortive fishing trip.