George Mann - Associates of Sherlock Holmes

“You have nothing on me, Mr Holmes – and we both know it. It is not illegal to take photographs and none of my – shall we call them – customers will say anything against me to the authorities.”

“I might not have you to rights, yet,” Holmes replied. “I merely wanted you to know that I know – and that I shall be watching you closely.”

I missed the rest of the conversation – I was already off and away down the internal corridor of the suite. I found the bathroom, and a glass of water, which I carried with me for appearances’ sake should I be caught while casing the rest of the rooms.

At first I thought I was going to be out of luck – there were only clothes in the bedroom wardrobe – top quality though. But the second bedroom was where the real find was – the room had been made over into a small photography studio. I didn’t know what half the stuff was or what it was used for, but I recognised the flash powder right enough and remembered what Mr Holmes had said about it. I did what needed to be done and left quietly, putting the empty water glass on a sideboard before rejoining Holmes, Mackie and Watson in the main room.

Holmes and Mackie were still facing off to each other, but they were now sitting in armchairs and smoking cigarettes. I poured myself a Scotch – nobody seemed to be offering to do it for me, but nobody stopped me either – and joined Watson on the Chesterfield sofa. It all seemed a mite too civilised for my liking – I would have preferred to bust the villain’s head and have done with it – I suppose that is just another difference between Mr Holmes and myself, but I can’t say it’s one I am overly jealous of.

To be fair to him, Mr Holmes did not seem to be enjoying the verbal fencing, and his contempt for the Scotsman was writ large on his face as he listened.

“You cannot deny that I am only ushering in what we all know is in our future, Mr Holmes. The great unwashed do so love their tittle-tattle – gossip about their betters is the only thing that keeps them from despair. Who am I to deny them those pleasures if I am not to be paid to keep them to myself?”

“You talk far too blithely of despair for a man with so few moral scruples,” Holmes said. “I know it was you last night in the box, for I can see the magnesium powder in your hair where it has not been completely brushed out, and that scar on your cheek can be clearly seen even from the other side of the theatre.”

“And I know you saw me,” Mackie replied with a smile. “But here we are – and you can still do nothing about it, shackled by your conventions. Besides, even if you did find something against me, it is not as if you yourself are immune to scandal, is it Mr Holmes? There is more than enough in your past to keep your friend Lestrade busy for months should he come to hear of it.”

To his credit, Holmes never so much as blinked.

“We are not here to discuss my failings, Mr Mackie – I am all too aware of them. As I have said, I am merely here to let you know that I shall be watching you closely from now on until you make the mistake that allows me to put a stop to you once and for all.”

“Watch and learn, Mr Holmes. I have developed a taste for this life, and it is surely preferable to joining my stoker father on the Great Eastern Railway, so do your worst. I intend to be busy here in London for quite some time yet.”

And with that we were dismissed. As Holmes rose and walked past me he turned, looked into my eyes and raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. I, however, knew that look of old – he had spotted something, something that he deemed important. He did not speak of it though, not then, nor on the way back to Baker Street, where I took my leave of him and Watson and went down to the theatre to prepare for that evening’s show and, hopefully, catch a couple of hours of well-earned sleep.

I heard no more until three nights later, when a street lad – I think he was one that I had seen in Baker Street but I cannot be sure – delivered a note to the stage door.

It was not signed, but I knew the sender. I left Sleepy Jack in charge of the house – with severe admonishments as to the consequences should he take to the gin again – and made my way across town to Soho.

Everyone in central London knows Miss Jane’s, but nobody will admit to ever being there, despite it being packed to the gunwales with lonely gentlemen on any given night. Tonight was no exception – the downstairs hallway was so crowded with well-suited toffs that I had to push through them to make my way inside. Holmes and Watson were there ahead of me, standing at the foot of a flight of stairs.

“The Irregulars followed him,” Holmes said. “And they did a fine job of it. He has a new quarry tonight.”

Holmes mentioned a name and this time it was my turn to raise an eyebrow. European royalty, even minor royalty, was indeed a step up for Mackie, and one that would ensure him plenty of those worldly pleasures he seemed to covet should he succeed in his play.

“He has two rooms – His Majesty is in one with the lady, and I believe Mackie is in the other with his camera. Watson will get the prince out without any fuss, and you and I shall beard Mackie in his den. Agreed?”

Both Watson and I nodded, and we made our way upstairs.

Watson seemed concerned. “Even if we catch him in the act, Holmes, there will still be nothing that Lestrade can use for a conviction – not enough in any case.”

“At least we will stop him tonight,” Holmes said, and he looked at me pointedly in the same manner as before; he knew more than he was saying.

We arrived outside a room on the second landing. It was obvious from the noises from within that His Majesty was enjoying all that the house had to offer.

“On my mark, Watson,” Holmes said, leading me to the next door along. We stood there for some seconds.

“Are we waiting for something, Holmes?” I asked, and again I got the raised eyebrow in reply.

“I was rather hoping you would tell me , Shinwell,” he said.

Luckily, before I had time to think of an answer that would be evasive enough to get past Holmes, the gap at the bottom of the door lit up as a flash went off within. Even as I put a shoulder to the door, I knew we would be too late, for the screams that immediately followed the flash were too high and too wild to come from a man with any hope of living.

The door split under my weight, and revealed the hellish scene inside. Mackie’s whole upper torso was aflame, his hair singed off, his skin bubbling and seething under a white fire that burned so hard it hurt the eyes to look at it. By the time we reached him he had already fallen to the floor, and by the time we doused the flames by wrapping him in a rug the man was dead. There was only a smoking ruin where his smug smile had been.

I saw through a connecting door to the room beyond that Watson was already leading the prince away and out of sight of what would soon be many prying eyes.

Holmes looked down at the body and pursed his lips.

“Well, Shinwell, it seems that your ploy worked.” He went on, without giving me time to protest my innocence. “I smelled the fixing reagent on you as soon as you came back into the hotel room so I know you found the developing room. And I noted the empty glass on the sideboard as we left. That, and the fact that you were present when I told Watson of the properties of the flash powder, and now the look on your face. I know this is your doing, so there is no sense in you denying it.”

“I would not want to deny it, if truth be told, Mr Holmes,” I said. “For if anyone deserved it, it is this piece of vermin. But I am happy to pay whatever price you deem necessary.”