“Where did you hear about his later work?” I was by no means certain that he should know of such things, though if he had worked with Mycroft I dare say he was privy to more information than most.
“You hear most things in my line of work, Doctor,” he said, “especially when you’ve been doing it for as long as I have. I heard all about Edward Prendick and his story of having met Moreau in the South Pacific, about the creatures he met there …”
“And did you believe any of it?”
“I can honestly say I would be willing to believe anything with regards Moreau, he was an extremely capable monster.” He suddenly jumped up from his seat. “I kept all of my notes from the time I spent working with him,” he said, moving over to his desk and picking up a large folder. “They’re not pleasant reading but you’re welcome to borrow them should they be useful.”
“You’re too kind.” This was more than I had hoped for.
“No, it comes with a price—would you keep me informed? I know you can’t tell me everything, but I would appreciate being involved as much as you can allow. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time I’d worked with the government!”
I was by no means sure this was a deal I could afford to accept, but the opportunity to take his notes was a hard one to turn down.
“As soon as I can reveal more,” I said, “I will. I’ll even ask Mycroft if you can be put in the picture. How would that be?”
At the mention of Mycroft his face soured a little. “Perhaps it would be better not to appeal to him,” he said. “I’ve found myself somewhat at odds with him in recent years.”
“He can be a hard gentleman to get on with.”
Mitchell nodded. “And I often find myself in, shall we say, legally complex positions.” He grinned at his phraseology. “As a journalist you sometimes have to tread delicately to get the story you want. I’ve done nothing that I’m ashamed of, I hasten to add, but I can understand why Mycroft felt it necessary to distance himself from me. He does have to maintain a whiter-than-white reputation.”
He handed the file over. “Never mind, tell me what you can when you can, I’ll settle for that. If there’s a story in it down the line I’d like to be ahead of the game.”
“Understood.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I left Mitchell’s home with the bundle of notes beneath my arm, and ruminated upon whether to return to Baker Street or continue fishing for information. The thought of Holmes’ insufferable arrogance decided me. Instead of making my way home I called in at Scotland Yard.
“Doctor!” Lestrade was apparently pleased to see me, which brought to mind Holmes’ statements from the night before. Did the policeman truly resent the impression I had created of him in the popular press? I decided simply to ask him outright, and to Hell with it. He stared at me for a moment, clearly surprised by the question. Then he laughed.
“I don’t think I’ve had to pay for a single beer in the last twelve years, Doctor,” he said, “which is more than enough compensation for any slights on my professional ability.” He took a big mouthful from a cup of tea on his desk. “There’s not a copper from here to Glasgow that doesn’t want to hear a story or two. ‘Is ’e really like ’e seems in the magazines?’ they ask. ‘Can ’e really do those tricksy little numbers where he guesses all about a person from the way they comb their hair or knot their tie?’ The questions are never-ending.”
“That alone must get somewhat tiresome,” I suggested.
“Nah …” Lestrade dumped his teacup back on the desk, where its dregs splashed onto a stack of crime reports. It made me think of bloodstains. Perhaps I was spending altogether too much time with Holmes—everywhere I looked I imagined murder. “To be honest,” Lestrade continued, “the attention’s nice really. You don’t get much credit in this job. You’re someone to spit on or lob a brick at. More often than not when I say my name people want to shake my hand, not punch me. I doubt it’s done me much harm with the powers that be, either.”
“So, everything considered, I should be asking for a commission rather than apologising?”
He laughed. “There’s no spare from my wage, Doctor! That’s not changed, whatever else has!” He sat up straight, perhaps reminded by discussion of his salary that he had a job to do. “Surely you didn’t come over here just to ask me about that, though?”
I admitted as much. “I was wondering if you could get me information on the death of a man called Edward Prendick. He lived somewhere rural and was believed to have committed suicide by drinking acid.”
“‘Lived somewhere rural’?” Lestrade laughed. “Don’t believe in making things easy for me, do you?”
“Sorry, I had hoped to be able to narrow it down further.”
“Actually you might be in luck, the name rings a bell.” He got up and stuck his head out of the door of his office. “Oi!” he shouted. “Albert, ’as George left yet?”
A distant voice echoed back. “Only just—’ang on a tick!”
There was a pause and the distant sound of shouting. After a few moments, a familiar, bespectacled face popped its head around the door.
“You wanted me?” asked Inspector Mann, a detective Holmes and I had met recently when investigating the grotesque death of Lord Ruthvney. He was wrapped in several layers against the cold, making him appear to waddle slightly as he entered the room. On noticing me, he laughed, shuffled over and shook my hand. “Well if it isn’t Dr Watson,” he said, “the man partially responsible for the most incomprehensible police statement I’ve ever had to write.”
“Yes, I imagine it took some imaginative filing.”
“Indeed it did. It’s all very well for Mr Holmes—he doesn’t have to bundle his deductions up into carefully constructed paragraphs and lists.”
“He leaves that to me,” I replied.
“Well, next time we cross paths perhaps you could be so good as to hand over the relevant issue of The Strand and I’ll just file that.”
He looked to Lestrade and put his hands in his pockets. “Might this be just such an occasion?”
“Indeed it might,” I admitted, “if you know anything about the death of Edward Prendick.”
He smiled. “Can I not have a single bizarre death on my patch without you two getting involved?” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “Do you want the quick version or the full tour? I was just heading back there and you’re welcome to join me if you have the time and inclination.”
I thought about it for a moment and decided the latter was definitely the way to go. If I was determined to gather evidence to rival Holmes then I needed to do it as per his methods and visit the actual scene of the crime.
“I’m game for a trip to the country!” I replied.
“Fine luck for some,” said Lestrade.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Mann and I made our way to Liverpool Street Station and boarded the one o’clock train to Billericay.
En route, Mann entertained me with stories of his country career. It was clear that he hankered for the crimes of the city despite the fact that he couldn’t bear the thought of living there. “One must choose to cater for the soul or the brain,” he said. “The former is never happier than when surrounded by green, but the latter begins to fossilise.”
He kindly insisted on sharing his sandwiches—there was no dining car on such a local service of course—and it was an enjoyable journey, watching the buildings give way to fields as we munched on tongue and chutney.
On arrival at Billericay, Mann led me to the police station, a small building just off the main high street.