Before I could utter the words, Cheek announced them himself: “‘Just like Raskolnikov.’ Remember that he had left his father’s watch with the old woman whose head he would soon be splitting open?” And Cheek slammed the edge of his right hand into the centre of his open left palm to emphasise the point. His high-pitched laugh followed the dramatic gesture.
Narrowing his eyes as he tried to interpret the meaning of this strange performance, Lestrade indicated for the two men to sit down.
“On the other hand,” Cheek went right on as he sat, “unlike Raskolnikov, on my walk here” - and he held up his fingers to tick off each of the following points - “I saw no woman leaping into the Thames, no young girl being interfered with by a cold-hearted rake, and no drunken fool being run down by carriage horses. Oh, and before you ask, I also have had no dreams of some poor nag being beaten to death by its owner.” Turning to Arbuthnot for approval of his wit, Cheek was rewarded with a broad grin.
I sat there with wide eyes. Cheek had just listed the most distinctive events that confront Raskolnikov in the early sections of Crime and Punishment. In the process, he had left me with no parallels about which to inquire.
Lestrade cleared his throat. “Tell me about this watch, then. What does it look like?”
“A silver hunter. Opens from both sides. One side is the watch face; the other contains a small portrait of my sister Priscilla. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding it, Inspector. Gottfried wrote the name of the client on the paper in which he wrapped each pledge.”
Raskolnikov’s pawnbroker had done the same. Nonetheless, Lestrade made a show of rummaging through a desk drawer. Perhaps he was providing additional opportunity to allow Cheek to incriminate himself. “Describe the chain, if you please,” said Lestrade looking up.
Roderick Cheek’s face broke into a broad grin. “You’re the very devil, Inspector. Not only should the watch be wrapped in a paper with my name on it, but also - as I am sure you are aware - the watch has no chain. I pledged its steel chain to another pawnbroker a few months ago.”
“Ah, yes,” said Lestrade. His chicanery unmasked, he magically “discovered” the watch in question and handed it to the young man. Cheek opened both covers to be certain all was intact. Once satisfied, he signed the receipt Lestrade presented to him. The pen made a scratching sound as he wrote.
“Anything else you want to ask me?” said Cheek when he handed back the paper.
The Inspector shook his head. “That’s all for now. Thanks to Dr Watson, we know where to find you.”
Cheek eyed me suspiciously as Arbuthnot rose and headed for the door. Cheek was about to follow him out, but turned back to Lestrade and tugged at his forelock, a poor servant paying his respect. “Perhaps we’ll see each other on Sunday,” he added, and then both men were gone.
“Sunday?” I asked.
“Big gathering planned for Trafalgar Square,” explained Lestrade. “I should judge that all the foreign malcontents from the East End will be on hand to air their grievances. I don’t doubt that this Cheek fellow will be there. Lucky not to get his skull split open. But then our boys restrain themselves. No axes allowed.” He chuckled to himself at his little joke.
I remained in Lestrade’s office for the next hour to hear what Gottfried’s other two clients, the men Lestrade had cornered at the funeral, had to say; but having strong alibis for the night of the murder, they were allowed to collect their pledges and leave without any further ado.
Chapter Seven: St Petersburg
As it turned out, Sherlock Holmes had chosen a tumultuous time to be gone from London. On Sunday, 13 November, two days after Roderick Cheek’s performance at Scotland Yard, an epic battle did indeed erupt in Trafalgar Square. Mounted members of the Metropolitan police along with hundreds of military troops waded into a raging sea of unemployed protesters.
So ferocious was the encounter that the resulting carnage earned the calamitous event the epithet of “Bloody Sunday.” Echoing the words of Lestrade, the newspapers reported that foreign elements living in the East End - in reality, desperately poor people seeking justice - had joined the thousands of poor British workers in the Square, helping turn the affair into a riot. I assumed that if Roderick Cheek were not ill, he too was part of the mob.
I, on the contrary, was never one to side with rioters no matter how just their cause, and so I did my best to avoid the fray. That meant altering the schedule I had recently developed. During the days of Holmes’ absence - that is, whenever I was free of patients - I would while away the hours at my club. Billiards, newspapers, conversation, the odd glass of Guinness - all served to address my needs. On the day scheduled for the mass protest, however, I decided to forego such pleasures. On that particular Sunday, I stayed clear of central London.
For his part, Lestrade had his hands full. At the same time he was wrestling with the Brick Lane murders, he also had to help sort out the angry workers who had been arrested and brought to the Yard.
Not to say that Holmes and I did not face our own challenges with two investigations going on at the same time. As yet, we had not reached any tangible conclusions regarding the murders of Gottfried and his wife though, thanks to the Irregulars, I considered closed the case that dealt with the whereabouts of Roderick Cheek. Oh, I could have informed Miss Cheek of our success myself; but as the lady was Holmes’ client, I assumed that, just as I had told Lestrade concerning my interviews with Cheek and Arbuthnot, Holmes would attend to the matter upon his return.
Speaking of Holmes, I should
