“Presumably, if the hotel staff could not help for some reason, Mr. Winkle would have sent for you then?”
“Oh, aye, without question.”
“I assume he would have taken a hearse with him?”
“Yes, we have one just for the purpose,” Larkman said. “It’s small, discreet.”
“May I see it?”
Larkman led Holmes to an area below the station level. He tutted. “That’s very odd,” he said. “It isn’t here. Mr. Graves? Mr. Graves, has someone taken the hotel hearse out?”
“Not this morning, Mr. Larkman. Is it missing?”
They searched, but the hearse was nowhere to be found.
By the time Holmes left the railway station, it was after eleven and mourners were beginning to arrive. What a curious business it all was.
He decided to walk to Caledonian Road, rather than take a cab. It would give him time to think. He tried to focus on the case but his mind kept returning to the problem of his flat. He really needed to find somewhere new to live, somewhere less restrictive. Unfortunately, accommodation in London was expensive. Perhaps he could find someone to share?
Stop that nonsense. Focus on the case.
What did he know? In the middle of the night, a man is called to transport a corpse from Caledonian Road to the Necropolis Railway in Waterloo. According to the log, he received the message at one o’clock. He was found covered in someone’s blood a little before three a.m.
The sky hung low with black clouds and he picked up his pace. He reached the inn on the corner of Frederica Street just before the deluge began.
“Bad day,” he said as he entered.
The landlord nodded. “Bad for business, that’s for sure. What can I get you?”
“A pint of your best, and whatever you’re having yourself.”
The lounge was empty apart from themselves. Holmes chinked his glass to the landlord’s and said, “Your very good health.”
“And yours, too, sir.”
Holmes nodded towards the downpour outside and said, “People will be dropping like flies. Bad weather is always a boon for the funeral trade.”
“It’s an ill wind,” the landlord agreed. “Not so good for my business though.”
“No?”
“People don’t like to come out when it’s rough. We get our regulars, of course, but it’s people visiting the prison that make up most of my customers.”
“Do many of them stay in your rooms?”
“It comes and goes,” the landlord said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He missed the froth on the corner of his lip and it looked curiously as if he were blowing bubbles. “Ain’t had no one in nearly two weeks. Don’t suppose you’re looking for a bed yourself, sir?”
“I might be looking to move out of my flat in a few weeks. Don’t suppose I could look at the rooms?”
“Course you can.”
The landlord poked his head out the door and, satisfied there were no customers on the way, locked it, and led Holmes up a tight and twisting staircase. The detective had a moment’s sympathy for Mr. Winkle. Getting a coffin down these stairs would be no joke.
“How many rooms do you have here, Mr . . . ?”
“Cubby, sir. Victor Cubby at your service.” The landlord paused and looked back at Holmes. There wasn’t enough room to shake hands. He turned back and continued the steep climb. “We have four. They’re small, but they’re clean enough. My missus keeps them all spic and span. She’s a good cook, too, and can see to all your meals, if you might be wanting summat.”
“That’s good to know,” Holmes said. “Does she help you run things?”
“She keeps an eye. Mind you, she’s been distracted. My old mum is proper poorly. The missus is very fond of her. That’s where she is now. We’re taking turns looking after mum. Not got long left, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Between doing a full turn here and then running up to Finsbury Park to take care of her, we’re both wore out. It’s probably as well that we haven’t had any guests for a while. Here we are. This is the best room we have.”
He swung open the door and stepped inside. Holmes, behind him and three steps down, heard the landlord cry out. He himself stepped into the room and saw the reason for the man’s alarm. Blood covered the bed, the walls, and even part of the ceiling.
Long splashes of dried blood streaked across the floorboards from an upturned trunk at the foot of the bed. There. That’s where Dutch Winkle fell. Sherlock Holmes could see it almost as if the scene unfolded before his eyes.
The landlord stared at the spattered room. Holmes noticed the man’s pallor and the sweat on his brow with alarm.
“Mr. Cubby,” he said, “I think you should send for the police. Send word to Scotland Yard and ask for Inspector Lestrade to come here.”
The man stared at Holmes for several seconds without apparent comprehension. Then he seemed to rouse himself and said, “Lestrade? Yes, very well. I’ll be right back.”
“No rush, Mr. Cubby. You might want to have a drink. You’re very pale.”
“A drink? Yes, yes, a drink is a good idea.”
“But first send for the police.”
A moment
