Showing posts with label 1b. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 1b. Show all posts

Chapter 6: Living In A 'Safe House'


A policeman guards 36 Alderney Street, Pimlico, London.
"What do you mean by 'microscope'?" I asked.

"It's a 'safe house', Watson. What does that mean? Typically, there would be a hidden entrance so people could come and go without being seen, and each flat would be soundproofed so nobody could overhear what was going on -- that would be necessary for interrogations, let us say.

"It would also have all the usual high-security arrangements: bullet-proof windows, steel doors, probably with biometric locks, full-time audio and video surveillance, and a direct line to MI6."

"One of the later news reports mentioned the direct line," I interjected, "saying it hadn't been used."

"That may be a crucial detail, Watson," Holmes said. "We can never know what might turn out to be important. On the other hand it might be just another diversion, like the nonexistent gay porn and the dresses that weren't there."

"And what do you make of all that, Holmes?" I asked. "Is it just shoddy reporting, the profit-motive driven to cheap sensationalism and run amok? Or is it something more sinister?"

"You've read the news reports that I've collected." the detective said. "I can't claim to have found everything ever published about this case, but I do believe we have a representative sample. What struck you about the coverage, Watson?"

"It was all so lurid," I said "but aside from that, it's been so scattered and unfocused as to be virtually meaningless!"

"On the contrary, dear Watson," Holmes replied, "In a case of bloody death -- a stabbing, let us say, especially one with multiple wounds -- an observant investigator can learn a great deal from the 'splatter', the way the blood is distributed around the scene."

"But in this case there was no blood," I replied. "No wounds or marks on the body of any kind, according to William Hughes."

"Of course there wasn't, Watson. In this case, I think we can find meaning in the way the press coverage was 'splattered', if you will allow me the liberty."

"I'm not sure I follow you, Holmes."

"If we group the reports chronologically, allowing for the 'lag time' it takes for news to spread, we find an intriguing pattern."

"How so?" I asked.

"The first reports contained sensational lies about the body, and that was when we read that Gareth Williams had been stabbed or that his body was dismembered. Hints were given that he had been killed by a jealous lover. But at the same time the idea that his death was the result of 'a bizarre sex game gone wrong' was already being floated.

"Then came the wave of sex-scandal. There were reports that he was a transvestite, had contacts at male escort agencies, kept bondage equipment at his flat, and so on. The police took the very unusual step of denying all this, but still the nonsense about bizarre sex kept coming.

"Next it was who-done-it, and we were treated to a spectacular array of suspects: it was the Russians, or the Chinese, or Muslim terrorists, or a violent Irish Republican faction. Or maybe it was a jealous lover, or 'a bizarre sex game gone wrong'. The pattern in the timing of is one of the keys, Watson. Also worth noting is the continuous undercurrent of 'bizarre sex', especially since the most lurid allegations have been denied by the police themselves."

"Ah, yes indeed, Holmes," I agreed.

"That's one aspect of the 'splatter', Watson. Here's another: Look at the earliest news reports which claimed bizarre sex-related objects were found at the flat. They all had the same basic line, but some -- perhaps even most -- also had unique or 'exclusive' details, to titillate their readers in ways their competitors could not.

"To take the most obvious instance: the Sun, under the headline 'Murdered spook was a cross-dresser', provided sensational -- though untrue -- information about the scene of the crime that was not available elsewhere. Other papers contained other unique details, most of which were later denied by the police themselves.

"How did this all come about?" Holmes continued. "Were all these reporters making things up? Or were they being fed disinformation from a central source?

"The third aspect of my 'splatter analysis', as it applies to the present case, is a different sort of question, namely: Why is this story in the papers at all? There are editors at every paper who would deep-six any story, short of the second coming of Elvis, at the mere mention of the Official Secrets Act. It would have taken one phone call to each paper to make this entire story invisible, and we always have to keep that in mind.

"In terms of my knife-wound analogy," Holmes continued, "we must ask not only 'Why is there blood here but not there?' but also 'Why are we finding any blood at all?'"

"So the phrase 'safe house' should be seen as a metaphor, in other words?" I asked. "Are you saying MI6 should have been able to protect their man and his family from all this outrageous press?"

"Indeed, Watson," he replied. "If they hadn't wanted all this rubbish in the papers, it wouldn't have been there."

"Unless I misunderstand you, Holmes," I said, "this could be one of the deepest, darkest mysteries that you've ever solved!" I hoped he heard more excitement in my voice than fear.

"I haven't solved it yet, Watson," he replied, "and perhaps I never will. But it is certainly deep and very dark, I will give you that!"

Chapter 7: Buckingham Slate


Holmes finally lit his pipe.
"It's all been happening so fast, Holmes." I  stalled, hoping to catch up with a mind much sharper than my own. "Let me see whether I follow you."

Holmes finally lit his pipe, then sat down in his favourite armchair and said, "Go ahead, Watson. Describe our position, and I will stop you if you go awry."

"We're certain Gareth Williams was murdered, are we not? We've seen the bag, you've met the landlady, and because of what we now know, we can be confident that he was deliberately killed. In fact, I'd say the probability that he died by suicide or accident is about the same as the probability that he died of natural causes."

My friend smiled grimly and I continued. "If he was murdered, as we think he was, then either he was killed in the 'safe house' on Alderney Street, or he was killed elsewhere and his body was brought into the 'safe house', presumably by the killer or killers."

"Which do you think it was, Watson?" my friend inquired.

"Killing an MI6 man in an MI6 'safe house' seems an incredibly audacious thing to do, Holmes."

"But consider the alternative, Watson," he replied. "How much audacity would it take to kill an MI6 man elsewhere, then lock his body in a bag and drop it in the bathtub of his very own flat -- even if that flat were not in a 'safe house'? It's an enormously audacious crime in either case."

We heard a ring at the door, Mrs. Hudson on the stairs, and some commotion just outside our flat. Then Mrs. Hudson appeared, saying "There's a man here to see you, Mr. Holmes, but he has no appointment, and I've told him --"

"It's all right, Mrs. Hudson --," Holmes began, but he was interrupted by the man himself, who squeezed past our landlady and through the doorway with what seeemed as though it could have been his final breath.

He was old, grey and hobbled, wearing a tattered light jacket and a hat that may have been new when Holmes was a lad. His hair was long and shaggy, his face hidden behind a raggedy beard. He remained just inside the doorway, looking anxiously from Holmes to Mrs. Hudson, to me, and back to Holmes again.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes intoned, and our landlady slipped quietly away. She had seen enough odd visitors over the years not to be frightened for her own safety whenever a new one appeared, and she knew Holmes kept a revolver in his desk drawer, so she wasn't frightened for us, either.

As soon as the door was closed, the old man spoke.

"Forgive me Mr. Holmes for the disguise, but I can't be seen coming to you just now."

With these words, he removed his jacket and his hat -- to which his hair and beard were attached! -- straightened his back, and stood before us, looking suddenly taller, younger, and entirely presentable.

Holmes recognized him instantly. "Bucky! What a pleasant surprise! Don't move!!"

The detective stood up quickly and crossed the room, visiting each of the windows and drawing all the curtains. Having done so, he shook our visitor by the hand and said, "Come in and sit down. You should be safe now, at least for a while.

"Watson, this is Buckingham Slate," Holmes said, "a detective from Scotland Yard with whom I have worked on a previous case. Not as thick as the sort they tend to hire there these days, if I may say so. And Slate -- Bucky! -- please meet my friend and colleague Dr. Watson, upon whose discretion you may rely entirely. What brings you here? It must be something serious."

"If there's one thing I'll need, it's your discretion, sir," Slate began, "and yes, I should say it's serious enough!"

"Tell me all about it," Holmes said, and I reached for my notepad once again.

"Well, sir, you remember the case you helped me on before? That was tricky, deep, and ugly -- but you could always find a way forward, and that was what amazed me."

"The case did present one or two features of interest," Holmes said, flashing his most self-effacing smile, but only for a fraction of a second.

"That's what we need here, sir: a way forward. I know some of your methods, thanks to Dr. Watson's accounts for the most part, as well as that one case we worked together, and I've been trying to apply them. One thing you're famous for among the force, or perhaps I should say 'infamous', sir, is your thoroughness, your determination to leave no stone unturned."

I was beginning to suspect Holmes was as susceptible to flattery as any man, but much more adept than most at not showing it. He nodded slightly to acknowledge the praise, and said, "And..."

"I always try to apply that principle, sir, and it's taken me far in one case after another, even if I do say so myself. But in this case, there doesn't seem to be a stone that's not cemented tightly in place. Try as I might, I cannot turn over a single one, sir, nor can I figure out why."

Holmes eyed Slate intently and said, "What's the matter, Bucky? What's going on?"

"Well, sir, it seems as though every witness I want to talk to is either permanently missing or suddenly unavailable. I keep getting the feeling that evidence is being created and destroyed, sir, and for some reason, most of my men don't even have high enough security clearances to discuss the case amongst themselves -- yet I cannot get any others!"

"May I ask the nature of the case?" Holmes inquired.

"It's murder, sir, if I'm any judge. Not everyone thinks the same, though. Some say to them it looks like accident, or even suicide, but I don't see it that way, sir. I think the man was deliberately killed."

"And the name of the victim?"

"Why, it's Gareth Williams, sir. The MI6 man who was found padlocked in a holdall in Pimlico."

Holmes, up and moving again, peeked between the curtains and out across Baker Street. "You've been followed, Bucky," he said, "by two men who are waiting in a doorway across the street. We'll have to be careful."

Chapter 8: Another Disguise


Holmes and Watson share a flat
at 221B Baker Street, London.
"How do you know they've followed me?" Buckingham Slate asked Sherlock Holmes.

"When I closed the curtains, they looked as though they were about to enter the shop. Now they're lounging in the doorway, smoking. They're not shopping, Bucky!" Holmes replied.

"I took all the evasive action I could think of," said our guest.

"I have no doubt you did," Holmes answered, gesturing toward the disguise Slate had worn. "But they're not going into the shop, so we had better assume they're waiting for you."

"What can we do now, Mr. Holmes?" the Scotland Yard detective asked.

"Take off your shoes and put them here," said Holmes, sweeping everything off the coffee table. "I'll be back in a minute or two," he continued.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he called, as he hurried out of the flat.

Buckingham Slate's face showed a measure of surprise and two of consternation. "I wouldn't question him," I said. "In all the years I've known Holmes, I have seen him do a great many things that appeared crazier than this, and he had good reasons for all of them, sir."

Holmes returned almost immediately with a shoeshine kit and dropped it on the coffee table, saying, "Your chances of giving these window-shoppers the slip would be better if your shoes were black, Bucky. Watson, can you help? I'll be back as soon as I can." Again he hurried out the door, while Bucky and I went to work on his shoes.

"I can't make head nor tail of this, Dr. Watson. Can you?" Slate asked.

"I can't say I do, Bucky," I replied, "but I'd be astonished if we don't find out very soon." We scrubbed and polished, as Holmes had requested, and before long, just as the shoes were beginning to look almost black, Holmes returned -- carrying one of Mrs. Hudson's dresses!

"I think this will fit you, Bucky," the great detective smiled.

"And won't it be a lovely bit of irony?" he added, giving me a wink which I didn't understand until later.

"Off with your shirt and trousers, Bucky!" Holmes commanded, "and pack yourself into this dress." As Slate disrobed, Holmes handed me Mrs. Hudson's overnight bag and said, "Put his clothes in here, Watson, but keep the tattered jacket and the hat-wig-beard separate."

Homes turned to Slate and continued. "You mustn't come here again, disguise or no, for a very long time. We'll need other arrangements for meeting. Do you know Harrington's Pub in Twickenham Road? No? Well, you can find it easily enough, and we can meet there. The proprietor, Michael Harrington, is a former schoolmate of mine, and he keeps a room free for me -- my consulting room away from home, if you like. We'll arrange to meet through the newspapers."

Holmes threw me another wink. "Another lovely irony," he said, mouthing the words, rather than saying them.

"When you want to see me, place an ad in the Times classifieds. I'll give you the wording. Change the day to tell me when you want to meet, place the ad so it will run at least 24 hours ahead of time, and arrive at Harrington's Pub on the evening of the named day, as close to 8 o'clock as possible. Go to the bar and ask for the proprietor. When you find Mr. Harrington, tell him I sent you, and he will know what to do. Have you got all that?"

Bucky nodded. Holmes wrote a few words on a sheet of paper, folded it up and handed it to him. "Just change the day of the week; copy the rest of the message verbatim. All right?" Slate nodded again.

"Good job squeezing into that dress, Bucky!" Holmes said. "Now put on this bonnet and let's see how you look."

"Ridiculous, sir!" Slate announced upon seeing himself in the glass.

"You would have looked even worse with brown shoes," said Holmes, "but with black on your feet, this impromptu outfit may be good enough to fool them." He stepped into the doorway and shouted, "Mrs. Hudson? Are you ready?"

"Just a moment, Mr. Holmes," our landlady's voice returned.

Holmes stepped back into the room and said to Slate, "Bucky, you and Mrs. Hudson are going to go for a walk. She'll bring you a shawl. Cover as much of yourself as possible. You are feeling cold, aren't you?"

Slate looked at me and rolled his eyes. "I guess so, sir. Whatever you say, Mr. Holmes."

"That's the spirit, Bucky," Holmes continued. "You'll go out the front door and turn right. Half a block down on your right, you'll find a coffee shop. Walk in, sit down, and order a piece of pie. Then take Mrs. Hudson's overnight bag and go to the ladies' room.

"As soon as you're safely out of view, change into your own clothes. Put the dress, the bonnet and the shawl in Mrs. Hudson's bag and leave it under the sink. Slip out the back door and you will find a cab waiting there -- I've already arranged the cab. While you're doing all that, Dr. Watson and I will keep the men in the window occupied.

"Mrs. Hudson will wait for the pie and eat it, then go to the ladies' room, retrieve her bag from under the sink and bring it back here. Is that all clear?"

Slate nodded again and Holmes clapped him on the back, saying, "If you do half as good an acting job on your way out as you did on your way in, you'll be fine."

Mrs. Hudson arrived, wrapped Bucky in a long shawl, and said, "Mr. Holmes, you ask the most unusual favours! But as long as you say it's for a good cause, sir, I'll go out and eat a piece of pie for you any day!"

"May I take my other disguise with me, Mr. Holmes?" Slate asked.

"No, Bucky, we're not finished with it," said Holmes. "You'll get it back in due course. Are you ready? Now make it convincing for the first few seconds and you should be all right."

We watched as Mrs. Hudson and her frail companion made their way down the stairs and out into Baker Street. The men in the doorway paid no heed as the two elderly women turned and shuffled slowly toward the coffee shop. "So far, so good, Watson," Holmes said. "Now it's our turn. Give me your jacket and hat, and put these on."

He handed me Slate's tattered jacket and his hat-wig-beard and threw one more wink my way, saying, "Let's take those window-shopping yobos for a spin."

Chapter 9: Diversionary Tactics


Baker Street at Marylebone Road, London
"Look in the glass, Watson," my friend Sherlock Holmes said, suddenly vibrant with excitement. "Fix up your 'beard'. Are you ready? This should be fun!"

"I don't look very much like Bucky did when he arrived, Holmes," I said, adjusting the hat-wig-beard our previous visitor had worn.

"That won't matter much, Watson," the great detective replied. "The thugs in the doorway across the street are looking for that hair and that beard, and they will certainly give chase. I think for once the odds are on our side to make a good show of it."

"Where are we going, Holmes?" I asked.

"Don't worry. And don't say anything," he cautioned. "Just come along with me, and enjoy the ride!"

I followed him down the stairs and he paused at the door, looking intently out into the street. After a few moments he was satisfied that the time was right, and he said, "Here we go, Watson. Follow me."

He stepped out into the street and I did the same. Holmes waved for a cab, and the men in the doorway followed suit.

Almost immediately, a cab pulled over to pick us up. As we stepped in, Holmes shouted above the din of the street, "The Edinburgh Express leaves in twenty minutes, driver. Double your fare if you get us to King's Cross in time!"

Then, softly, Holmes said, "Watch the men across the street, Watson." Taking his advice, I saw them climbing into another newly-arrived cab.

"Some days you can't find a cab; other days they're everywhere," I remarked, but Holmes looked preoccupied and didn't respond. The cab across the street made a quick, illegal, 180-degree turn and followed close behind us.

"Faster if you can, driver," Holmes said, and we started to gain on our pursuers.

"Slow down a bit now," Holmes said next, and I gave him a quizzical look.

"We want to lose them, but not yet, Watson," he said. "We should play out the line a bit, no?"

As we sped east along Marylebone Road, Holmes kept watching both behind and ahead of us, and advising the driver as to how fast he should try to go. The congestion was heavy in spots, and we couldn't always go as fast as Holmes would have liked, but just before we reached Regent's Park Crescent, space seemed to open up before us, and we darted ahead.

Suddenly the traffic behind us became snarled again, and Holmes, seeing this, told the driver to take the next two available turns. Thus we found ourselves heading south and then west, and then Holmes consulted with the driver and we turned again, three times in rapid succession, and suddenly I was lost. But soon I regained my bearings and was simultaneously shocked to see that we were on Marylebone Road again but now going west, back towards Baker Street.

"Where are we going, Holmes?" I asked again, my first attempt to elicit this information having failed.

"I'm going to Wales, Watson," replied Holmes. "Will you come with me?"

"I'll come if I can help you," I offered. "But aren't we going to the train station?"

"Not yet, my dear friend," he replied. "We haven't even packed."

"But what about the Edinburgh Express?" I prodded.

"I hope the men who were following us enjoy the ride, Watson. They'll be halfway to Luton before they realize we're not on their train, and then they'll be unable to do anything about it until they get to Scotland. By the time they make their way back to London, we'll be in Chester at the very least, maybe even all the way to Holyhead."

"That was diabolical, Holmes," I said, finally seeing what we had done. "But wasn't it dangerous? Suppose they'd caught us!"

"I was certain they wouldn't, Watson," he said, "and I am equally certain that they'll arrive at King's Cross in good time, and that they will board the train to Edinburgh!"

"How can you be sure of these things, Holmes?" I asked, and he showed me the face of a reluctant magician about to reveal one of his most treasured secrets.

"For the same reason I was sure they would find a cab at the same time we did," he said.

"And how was that, Holmes?"

"I took the precaution of arranging both cabs myself," he said.

"Wonderful!" I exclaimed.

"Ordinary," said he. "But did you happen to recognize the driver of the cab that followed us?"

I gasped. "Not your brother, Holmes?"

"Ever since the affair of the missing naval blueprints," Holmes smiled, "brother Mycroft has been talking about how much he 'owes' me. Well, now he owes me one less!"

Our pursuers would certainly board their train, with Mycroft assisting them to the very edge of the platform, no doubt. We returned to 221B Baker Street, Holmes paid the fare -- the equivalent of a one-way trip to King's Cross Station, plus a hefty tip -- and we were back inside our flat once more.

"The tattered jacket and the ratty old hat-wig-beard have served us well today, Watson," said Holmes. "I'll hang onto them until I see Bucky again."

I removed the components of Buckingham Slate's disguise and handed them to Holmes. "Can you be ready to leave in less than an hour, Watson?" he asked. "The next train for Chester departs in just 75 minutes.

"Wales is beautiful at this time of year," he continued, "and I'm looking forward to a bit of scenery."

My mind was swimming with questions, and evidently Holmes could see the confusion in my face. "Pack for two nights, Watson," he said. "We may return sooner, but it's best to be prepared."

"As for your other questions," he added, "we'll have plenty of time to talk on the train."

Chapter 10: Still On The Trail


Holmes and Watson aboard the train
Our second cab ride of the day was much less eventful than the first. We proceeded directly to King's Cross Station and boarded a train for Chester without incident.

Sherlock Holmes, who had been very quiet along the way, turned to me when we were rolling and said, "It will be good to get away from London for a while, and into some open country."

"Quite so, Holmes," I said, "but I'm puzzled. Are we really going sightseeing? Or are we still working on the Gareth Williams case? And if so, isn't our case in London?"

"The scenery will be very enjoyable, Watson," he replied, "but enjoying it is far from our main objective."

"Then we are still on the trail?" I asked.

"Very much so," he answered.

"I was confused even before the sudden and dramatic appearance of Buckingham Slate," I said, "but the mystery seems much more complicated now."

"The fact that he was followed to our flat may have complicated things for him, but I am grateful for the information he brought us," said Holmes.

"On the other hand, does this new information not make the case more mysterious?" I asked.

"I suppose that depends on your idea of what makes a mystery," said Holmes. "For a writer of mystery stories, each new bizarre detail makes the plot more difficult to construct, and adds to the sense of 'mystery.'"

"But for a real detective working in the real world," he continued, "it's the commonplace, the ordinary, the drab crime with no distinguishing features, that poses the greatest difficulties. The sensational, the bizarre, the outrageous -- the crimes that make for the most popular stories -- are, in general, the easiest to solve.

"This case has had bizarre features from the beginning, Watson," Holmes added, "and new information never hurts. From the analytical perspective, Slate's visit simplifies our task considerably."

"Does it not complicate things for you as well?" I asked.

"In one respect it certainly does," he replied. "In all these years, I have never had a case in which I've been consulted by two different clients. And yet here we are, working for both of them. I was hardly in a position to say anything about Hughes to Bucky. I am in no position to say anything about Bucky to Hughes. How could I refuse either of them? But working for both means being very quiet about it."

"It has the markings of a conflict of interest," I said.

"On paper, I suppose it does, Watson," Holmes allowed, "but as long as we concentrate on finding and exposing the truth, we should be all right, because, after all, that will help both Hughes and Bucky."

"I see, Holmes," I said.

"There's a further safeguard, and an utterly dependable one," he added.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Nobody in the world would ever know I took two clients on the same case unless somebody wrote about it, Watson," Holmes chuckled.

"I'll make a note of that, Holmes!" I replied, and we both laughed.

"But seriously, Holmes, why are we going to Wales?" I asked. "Are we chasing the killer?"

"No, my friend," he said. "We are chasing the motive!"

"I'm not sure I understand."

"I don't imagine you do," he said. "We are trying to untangle a long and twisted thread. One end of it is buried under miles and miles of official London, in places where even Scotland Yard cannot go. The other end lies in plain sight, just a few miles east of the beautiful natural port of Holyhead, and I intend to examine as much of that end as possible over the next couple of days."

"You're looking into Gareth Williams' background?"

"Indeed," said the world's foremost consulting detective.

"And then what?" I asked. "Then will you be ready to go after the perpetrator of this foul deed?"

"Nobody can know that at this point," he replied. "You'll have to formulate an easier question."

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