The Dead Assassin

CHAPTER 3 FENIANS, ANARCHISTS, AND DYNAMITARDS

“We found the body just up here…” Detective Blenkinsop said, and added in a muttered breath, “… somewhere.”

He was leading police commissioner Edmund Burke and his fawning assistant, Dobbs, through the fog-blind streets to the place where they had discovered the corpse of Charlie Higginbotham. Conan Doyle and Wilde trailed behind at a respectful distance.

“And this lone assassin was somehow able to stagger this far with five bullets in him?” Burke quibbled, releasing a skeptical snort. “Highly unlikely.”

“No, I’m sure of it, sir. You’ll see. And it’s Charlie Higginbotham, no mistaking.”

But when they reached the streetlamp where they had discovered the corpse, it had vanished.

“It’s gone!” Detective Blenkinsop gasped.

“Gone?” Chief Burke exploded. “What do you mean, gone?”

“It was right here. I swear it was.” The young police detective dashed about, frantically searching a widening circle around the streetlamp, but the corpse was nowhere to be found. “This is the spot. It was right here! These gents will back me up, won’t you?” He looked for support from Conan Doyle and Wilde, who hurried to reassure the commissioner that they, too, had seen the body on this very spot.

“Then where is this corpse now?” Burke demanded. “Dead men are not in the habit of getting up and walking away.”

“It is difficult to explain,” Conan Doyle quickly put in. “But what the detective says is true. Both Oscar and I would verify that this is the location.”

The commissioner turned to his adjutant and remarked in a sarcastic tone: “Do you see a body, Dobbs?”

“No, sir.”

“And neither do I. Come, let us go.”

Conan Doyle interjected, “Might I borrow your bull’s-eye lamp, detective?” He took Blenkinsop’s lamp and crouched at the edge of the curb shining the lantern light obliquely across the road. Two thin, silver trails gleamed on the cobbles.

“Look!” Conan Doyle said. “See the frost that’s forming? If you look at the right angle, you can see hoofprints and the wheel marks of a carriage. Two horses, I’d say.” Conan Doyle stood up and looked at the police commissioner, his face animated. “We need a measuring tape. The gauge of the wheels looks quite narrow. By measuring the wheel tracks we could determine what kind of vehicle removed the body: a carriage, a dray cart, a—”

“Mister Doyle,” the commissioner interrupted in a booming voice. “If you please, this is not one of your silly Sherlock Holmes stories; this is a real investigation. We have no time for dazzling and ingenious explanations. This road sees all kinds of traffic—”

“But the frost is forming even as we speak. These wheel tracks can only have just been—”

“Enough, Mister Doyle!” the commissioner roared, cutting him off.

“Doctor Doyle, if you please—”

“Forgive me, Doctor,” Burke corrected sourly. “Your fictions may be filled with inexplicable crimes that warrant fantastic explanations, but I’m afraid in the real world the explanations for most crimes are quite prosaic.”

Detective Blenkinsop stepped forward, his face earnest. “Sir, I know what I seen. I’d swear to it. The dead man was Charlie Higginbotham. No question.” He tapped the back of his neck. “Charlie had this tattoo of a butterfly—”

The commissioner silenced Blenkinsop with a raised hand and then crooked his fingers in a beckoning gesture. “Step closer, Detective.”

“Sir?” Blenkinsop took a step and the commissioner leaned into his face and sniffed.

“Do I smell strong spirits on your breath? Have you been drinking on duty?”

“No!” Blenkinsop shook his head. “I mean, well… I suppose… yeah, but—”

“I’m afraid that was my doing,” Conan Doyle interrupted, quickly coming to Blenkinsop’s defense. “When I first saw the detective tonight, he was in a state of shock — hardly surprising given the horrific nature of the crime scene. In my role as a physician, I insisted he drink a brandy, purely for medicinal reasons. But I can testify that he only had the one—”

“Undoubtedly,” the police commissioner snarled, cutting him off. Burke cleared his throat with a sound like tumbrel wheels grinding across cobblestones. When he spoke again, his tone made it clear he believed that the young detective’s word was no longer to be trusted.

“Detective Blenkinsop, you are clearly suffering from mental distress that is causing your judgment to be skewed. I am, therefore, suspending you from active duty — without pay, naturally — until your mind clears and you are better able to serve the force.”

“But, sir. I know what I saw and it was definitely—”

“Enough!” Burke barked with fury. He simmered a moment before speaking again. “With such a fog as this, it is impossible for anyone to make an accurate identification of a body. It is clear that you are emotionally overwrought. I suggest you return to the other officers. You will ride back to Scotland Yard in the Mariah.”

“But, sir!”

“That is quite enough, Detective! Unless you wish your suspension to be indefinite!”

Blenkinsop dropped his head in resignation and quietly muttered, “Yes, sir,” and then turned and trudged away into the fog.

“That is a brave young man,” Conan Doyle remarked in a voice taut with anger.

“No one doubts his bravery,” Burke responded. “It is his judgment I question. His promotion to detective at such an unseasoned age was, I fear, a mistake.”

“We witnessed the same thing,” Wilde put in. “Both Arthur and I.”

“About what you saw or imagined you saw, we shall speak of in the comfort and privacy of my carriage. The Yard is thankful for your, ah, assistance gentlemen, but now the case is in the hands of professionals. It is a foul night and I do not wish to keep you from the bosom of your family. Come along, let us conclude before anything else vanishes mysteriously.”

When they returned to Lord Howell’s house, the Italian valet, shackled hand and foot, was being manhandled into the back of the Black Mariah despite his howls and screams of pain. Conan Doyle would have preferred to ride with the prisoner in order to further question him, but Commissioner Burke was adamant that he and Wilde share his carriage.

They stood in the street, watching the Black Mariah pull away and vanish into the fog, and then the commissioner turned his corrosive gaze upon the two friends and said, “Of course, as this matter touches upon the safety of the realm, and as gentlemen, I expect you to say nothing of this matter to the newspapers. Especially, given the current air of unrest.”

“There have been threats?” Conan Doyle asked.

Burke barked a laugh. “Scotland Yard is awash in threats. Most are the impotent ramblings of lunatics and the feebleminded. Very few are of any real consequence.”

“Threats from whom?” Wilde inquired.

“Bolsheviks. Anarchists. And, of course…” he eyed the Irishman coldly and spoke the final word with such emphasis that spittle flew from his lips, “… Fenians.”

Conan Doyle saw the way the conversation was turning, and hurriedly put in, “I am certain the resources of Scotland Yard must be stretched right now, trying to defeat this anarchist threat.”

But his words had the reverse effect on Burke, who visibly bristled. “Hear me now, Mister Doyle, there is no anarchist threat. These people are a disorganized rabble of illiterate thugs. Compared to the sweeping powers of Scotland Yard and the Metropolitan Police Force, they represent a minor irritation. The dynamitards may set off their little whiz-bang’s here and there, but they do little real damage — apart from blowing themselves up occasionally.” He punctuated the remark with a sardonic laugh.

A bright flash that cut through the fog suddenly drew all eyes. Above the rooftops, a splash of light lit up the sides of tall buildings. Even from this distance, they watched the upward arc of flying masonry followed several seconds later by a rumbling detonation that struck like a fist to the chest, setting diaphragms aflutter.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM!

The light flared and faded, and the darkness resounded to a brittle symphony of shattering glass followed, moments later, by the mournful shriek of police whistles, calling out the alarm.

“That looked like Whitehall to me,” Wilde observed.

“Yes,” Conan Doyle agreed. “And something a little larger than a whiz-bang.”

At their glib comments, Commissioner Burke inflated with rage. He choked and spluttered but when he spoke again his voice thundered out in a nasal snarl: “I warn you two now, say nothing of tonight’s happenings to anyone. Not to the press. Not even your wives and loved ones…”

“You may count upon our discretion, Commissioner,” Conan Doyle assured, attempting to deflect his ire.

“Discretion, be damned! If I hear about either of you two scribblers playing consulting detective or in any way interfering in a police investigation, you will find yourselves in the deepest, darkest, dankest cell in Newgate. And with no official record of your arrest. Do I make myself clear?”

Distress rippled across Wilde’s face. Conan Doyle pressed his lips tight together, bridling at the naked threat, but neither man spoke. It was clear that their assent was not required.