“Yes,” said Harold. “I know that. What the hell is Sarah doing in a Conan Doyle family photograph? Why is she standing next to Sebastian?”
Ms. Higgins laughed. “Well, I think she’s done a bit more than stand next to him,” she said. “That’s Sebastian Conan Doyle’s wife, Sarah.” She paused, regarding Harold curiously. “Sarah Conan Doyle.”
Harold felt the bitter bile well up in his throat, and he did everything in his power not to collapse.
CHAPTER 41 Whatever That Cost Might Be
“If the law can do nothing we must take the risk ourselves.”
– Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,
“The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge”
December 4,1900
Arthur threw the rock as hard as he could against the gray stones of Scotland Yard. With a sharp clack, the rock bounced off the new Yard building and landed ineffectually at the feet of a nearby constable. Seeing the stone below him, the constable looked up to find its source. He saw Arthur backing away along Victoria Street, and as the constable opened his mouth to shout at the strange rock thrower, Arthur turned his back to the Yard and sped off. The brisk walk was a good outlet for his anger, and so he kept trotting west until, just before Westminster, he slowed and began to pant.
No one had believed him. No one had listened. Arthur’s name was more synonymous with the art of detection than any other in London, save that of Sherlock Holmes, and yet still they had not had the slightest interest in a word he’d said. Inspector Miller, in particular, had been the worst offender, given his recent dealings with Arthur. When Arthur had marched into Miller’s office and announced that he’d found the murderer of Emily Davison, Sally Needling, and their friend Anna, the man had calmly set down the report he’d been reading, awkwardly adjusted the pens on his desk, and then launched into a series of polite platitudes which overwhelmed Arthur in their obsequious banality.“We do so appreciate your help,” Inspector Miller had said, before thanking Arthur for all the time he’d devoted to the cause of justice. The Yard knew that Arthur must be terribly busy, what with all of his novelistic work. His generosity in taking so much time away from his writing had been noticed and appreciated. If he wished, a formal letter from Commissioner Bradford himself could be written, signed, and even framed for placement in Arthur’s home. “We value your assistance more than any other man of the realm,” continued Miller’s flattery. Arthur tried to hush him, tried to concern Inspector Miller with the case at hand rather than this disgraceful sycophancy. His ego did not need burnishing, he explained, but his findings deserved a public hearing. And one Mr. Bobby Stegler, of Stegler & Sons Printing House along the Strand, deserved to be clapped in the inspector’s most uncomfortable darbies and led forthwith to the gallows.
Inspector Miller had sighed. He’d told Arthur that after his recent trip to Newgate, it was best for Arthur to abstain from further involvement in this matter. No one wanted another mistake, after all. Why, careers that had taken a lifetime to build might be rubbed out with a single compromising word! If Arthur ended up in Newgate again, Inspector Miller’s own position of influence within the Yard might be shaken. Wasn’t it better for everyone if Arthur simply let the matter slide?
Arthur insisted that he did not know what would be best for himself or for the inspector or for the imbecilic muffs who ran this ragtag institution, but surely the world would be better off with a murderer placed properly behind bars! The man had killed three women. He would doubtless kill more.
Yes, very well, Arthur had been forced to admit that he had precious little in the way of actual evidence. In fact, he had none at all, save the man’s indirect confession, which only Arthur had heard. Moreover, Arthur did grant that the boy had not actually admitted to having killed those girls-but he certainly alluded to having done so. And that must count for something, mustn’t it? Arthur would stake his own life on this boy’s having been the murderer they’d been hunting for.
Inspector Miller had not been convinced. He had not believed. And, so Arthur realized with a growing anger, Inspector Miller seemed to be harboring suspicions elsewhere as to the identity of the killer.
“You went to the home of Sally Needling’s family?” Miller had asked. “You’ve made contact with this other girl-what was her name? Janet Fry? How do you know these young women so well?”
“I don’t,” Arthur had insisted. He’d tried to explain again. But the inspector’s questions revealed something dark and unspoken about the man’s thoughts-he thought he already knew who had killed Emily Davison. And, Arthur realized to his own horror, the inspector thought it was Arthur.
“What are you insinuating?” Arthur had finally asked him.
“Nothing, Dr. Doyle. As I said, it was my pleasure and my privilege to free you from the chains of Newgate the once. But I think no good would be served by my having to do it again.” The sympathetic nod which Inspector Miller had then given Arthur was the most aggravating part. As if Arthur were a co-conspirator in this corruption.
“If you think I killed Emily Davison,” Arthur had said furiously, spitting the words wetly from his mouth, “then you had better lock me up this very instant. Do not dare let my station in life deter you from bringing the full weight of the law down upon my back, do you hear me?”
The inspector had demurred. He’d defused the situation quietly and then had a constable show Arthur to the door. Arthur had been sputtering with rage when he grabbed the rock from the dirty cobblestones along Victoria Street and pitched it at the ugly stone face of British justice.
He found Bram less than three-quarters of an hour later in one of the Lyceum’s basement dressing rooms. Arthur entered to find Bram polishing the mirrors himself, wiping them clean with an old rag and a stick of Lever Bros. Sunlight Soap. Bram’s sleeves were rolled past his elbows as he scrubbed the soap streaks from the brilliant surfaces. The electric bulbs which surrounded the mirrors were reflected in the newly clean glass, doubling their brightness and making it appear, for an instant, as if the entire mirrored wall were constituted only of bursting flame.
Bram turned to face Arthur, setting down his rag.
“I’d know that face anywhere,” said Bram. “Welcome back, Mr. Holmes.”
Arthur did not smile. Rather he unburdened himself upon his friend, sharing the events of the past few days in detail, and in a rueful tone. When Arthur had finished, Bram scratched at his bushy red beard thoughtfully.
“The boy,” said Bram. “Bobby Stegler. He just let you leave? After he’d near confessed to you? He let you walk out of there in one piece?”
“Yes,” said Arthur. “Don’t you see? Once he knew who I was… well, he’d thought he’d found a fellow in his cause. And for my own part, I didn’t see much point in disabusing him of that notion. Strange, damn it. Everyone thinks I’m on his side. Inspector Miller thinks I’m trying to help him cover up my own crimes. And Stegler thinks I’m working to help him cover up his own.”
“So then, whose side are you on really, Arthur? That of justice? That of law?”
“No. Emily’s. Sally’s. Anna’s. I’m on the side of the girls.”
“Well then, what do you think your girls would have you do now?”
Arthur considered the question, turning to face both men’s reflections in the dressing-room mirrors. He noticed how well his own mustache had grown back, how quickly his visage had again taken on the form of a proper man’s. A strange image appeared in his head. It was of his own wedding day. Except that Arthur was not wearing his black tuxedo. Rather he was wearing a sparkling white wedding dress. He imagined himself stitched all in white silk, a flowing train following behind him as he walked blushingly down the aisle toward his betrothed. He imagined the smile on his face, the exuberance of a bride on her wedding day.