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.
“Precisely, Inspector. Stitched into the lining of his jacket, which is why Duggen missed it.”
“He’s gone back there. To Alderbrook,” I realised, catching up to Holmes’s train of thought at last. “It’s empty on account of the fire, but he’d still need to wait until after dark. He’s still after the money.”
“Trusting to Goose’s lockbox to have protected it from the blaze,” said Holmes.
“He’s still there, he must be,” I said, grabbing my coat. “I’d wager my reputation on it.”
“A modest bet, Inspector,” said Holmes, “but a hansom cab awaits to take us.”
By the time we reached Lower Thames Street, the day had almost ended and night was creeping in. What scant light remained made a hollow of the old workhouse, burnt and blackened. Roof beams had become exposed to the elements, jutting outwards like rib bones. Rats and vagrants made their lair here now, and somewhere amongst them was Morris Duggen.
“Shouldn’t we wait for your men, Inspector?” asked Watson as we paused at the threshold. I had sent Cooper off to find Metcalfe and have him rouse as many constables as he could.
I shook my head. “I won’t risk him getting away again,” I said. “We’ll have to be enough to apprehend him.”
Holmes nodded, having drawn a pistol. Both Watson and I were also armed. “Then let’s be at it, gentlemen,” said Holmes, and we entered the ruins of Alderbrook. It was dark within, and we dared not risk any light for fear of alerting our quarry, so we made do with what little illumination penetrated from the outside.
The entrance hall was deserted, and I saw Watson move off to the right to look through a gutted doorway. He shook his head, indicating that the room beyond was empty. Holmes took the left as I pressed ahead to the stairs. It was then that we heard it: a faint scuffing against the wooden boards. It was coming from above.