George Mann: Associates of Sherlock Holmes

“He’s dead, sir,” said Metcalfe.

“This is him , isn’t it,” I said, not needing to be a detective the calibre of Sherlock Holmes to realise this was the Peeler’s doing. Wainwright’s feet dangled over a foot off the ground, and with the strength it would require to impale a grown man like that…

Holmes agreed. “It can be no other, Lestrade.”

As he crouched down, ferreting for something beneath the hanging body, I heard Watson enquire, “What is it, Holmes?”

“Burnt offerings, Watson,” said Holmes, holding up a scrap of blackened material to the meagre light before showing it to me.

“He had some kind of fire? I don’t see the significance.”

“Did you find anything resembling a lockbox or perhaps a safe?” asked Holmes.

I frowned. “Nothing of the sort.”

Holmes did not elaborate, but instead gestured to the scrap of material. “If you’ll permit me, Inspector Lestrade?”

I couldn’t care less. “Be my guest, Mr Holmes,” I said, and turned to Metcalfe and my waiting constables. “Tear this place apart. If there’s anything that will help us stop this man, I want it found!”

The tannery yielded nothing but the skewered remains of Jacob Wainwright, certainly no lockbox or safe, and, as his body lay in the grim accommodations of the Scotland Yard morgue, I began to believe we might never catch the Peeler. Surely now, with Wainwright dead, he would go to ground, and we might never learn his true identity or the reason, if one existed, for his crimes. I could only assume Wainwright had been his accomplice, for surely there could be no other explanation, and the Peeler had turned on him and ended any chance we might have to question him.

After several hours of searching, I left Wainwright’s empty-handed. Holmes and Watson had long since returned to Baker Street and I had little choice but to go to my office, my cohort of officers disbanded, and review what little evidence remained. It was a surprise, then, that when I did return I found the detective and the doctor waiting for me.

“Both of you impersonating officers now, are you?”

Watson answered as Holmes smiled thinly. “Your desk sergeant was kind enough to accommodate us, Inspector.”

“I see,” I replied, making a mental note to reprimand the desk sergeant later. “So, are you here to gloat?” I asked, going to my desk drawer and the bottle of Lea Valley malt whisky I kept there for occasions such as this. Having poured my own, I offered both a cup but they declined.

“I prefer different vices, Inspector,” said Holmes.

“And it’s a little south of the yardarm for me,” added Watson.

“Please yourselves,” I said, taking a chair. “I hope you’re here with good news. I could use it.”

“Indeed, Lestrade,” said Holmes, “and I believe we have it.”

I sat up in my chair, my cup forgotten for the moment. “I’m listening.”

“It was the mask, Inspector, when I first began to form suspicions. The dead flesh of Jeremiah Goose staring through hollows instead of eyes, it kindled a theory I have been harbouring ever since we met Jacob Wainwright.” He struck up his pipe. “There can be no doubt that Wainwright is not our murderer, but I believe he knew him, and has done for several years.” Holmes then produced a sheath of papers from his jacket pocket that looked suspiciously like a police document and set it down before me.

“I took the liberty,” he said, “of having a look in the Scotland Yard archives and found something that piqued my interest.”

I looked down at the document, a sergeant’s record, the man declared dead several years ago.

“Has it ever occurred to you, Inspector,” said Holmes, “that our Peeler, who wears the flesh of dead men, might in fact be a dead man himself? At least,” he added, “according to his official police record.”

I read some of the details aloud. “Morris Duggen, killed in the line of duty, 6th June 1891.”

“His partner that fateful day was a Constable Jacob Wainwright,” said Holmes. “Both were involved in the foiling of a robbery at the Whitechapel branch of the London and Westminster Bank, which resulted in the deaths of several men, one of whom was Morris Duggen. This, Inspector,” said Holmes, “I garnered from my own extensive archives and from the scrap of material I recovered from Wainwright’s tannery.” He brandished it again. “A piece of artist’s canvas. It is difficult to discern, but a faint signature is just visible at the burnt edge. The Duchess , a lesser known but valuable piece, kept at the London and Westminster Bank on account of the previous owner’s unpaid debts. Its seizure was mildly scandalous at the time. All of which led me to recall a report of the robbery in The Times that named both the dead officer and one Barnabas Fenk, a former army man with moderate expertise in explosives. I say moderate because the explosives he used to breach the London and Westminster’s vault detonated prematurely and the aforementioned deaths occurred.”

I leaned back in my chair, availing myself of a warming sip of the malt. “Fascinating as all of this is, Holmes, what has this got to do with our skinner?”

“Barnabas Fenk spent some time in Alderbrook Workhouse where, no doubt, his path would have crossed with a certain porter.”

“Jeremiah Goose,” I said, setting my cup down again.

“Just so. I believe Mr Goose knew of, or was involved somehow in, the robbery of the London and Westminster. Several thousand pounds remain unaccounted for, as well as The Duchess , believed lost in the fire that broke out following Fenk’s botched incendiary device, the self-same blaze that crippled Wainwright and supposedly killed Morris Duggen.”

“Except Duggen survived,” I said, “and you think both he and Wainwright were somehow involved in this robbery? Duggen survives, escaping with the stolen monies, and Wainwright is honourably discharged. Fenk is dead, so there is no one left to contradict Wainwright’s story. Except Jeremiah Goose. But what about Duggen’s body? There’d need to be one if he was assumed dead.”

“Archibald Drew,” said Holmes. “Wainwright’s cousin, believed to have left London for brighter prospects elsewhere.”

“Archie,” I realised, nodding, “from Wainwright’s hammer. He took him on the robbery too.”

“Indeed. Wainwright was too frugal to discard a perfectly good stupa.”

“Drew’s body, all burned like that. Wainwright could have said it was anyone and make up any story to explain his absence.”

“And did so, Inspector.”

“Jeremiah Goose, he found out somehow,” I said. “And Duggen killed him for it, even took his face.”

“This is not a rational man we are dealing with, Inspector,” said Watson.

“But Lestrade is right,” added Holmes, “though I suspect Goose did more than merely threaten to expose Wainwright and Duggen for their crimes. I believe he stole some of their ill-gotten gains, and Duggen went looking for them.”

“The Alderbrook fire.”

Holmes nodded. “Enraged when he couldn’t find what he was looking for, I think he set the blaze to deny anyone else getting their hands on the money. Furthermore, unsettled by his recent encounter with the law, I believe Jacob Wainwright took steps to rid himself of any damning evidence in his possession, hence the fire at the tannery. The canvas and a sum of money that, at the least, would raise questions.”

“And Duggen killed him for it.”

Holmes nodded. “Judging by the condition in which we found the body, I believe he tortured Wainwright, who knew Goose, and found out about the lockbox.”

“The key,” I realised.