“I’m Simon Camp, a Pinkerton man—I thought I mentioned it. I’ve come to Mother England to investigate these horrid occurrences.”
“On the Pinkertons’ dime? Peculiar assignment.”
“My own dime. And I’m not under anyone’s wing anymore. Inspector—Dolly, is that the quaint nickname for you?—my proposal is simple and benefits us both. If you share with me what you know so far in this case, I can lend you my ingenuity and, rarer still, experience in such matters. Perhaps I can even give you some tips on your Fenian problem.”
The way the Pinkerton man lingered on “experience” made Dolly’s mind turn to the booklet they had acquired about the Dante incidents in Boston. Dolly had recently received a letter from a former policeman in Boston who had been intimately involved in that case, giving him details that had been withheld from the papers, including about the work of a private detective who had tried to use his knowledge for the purposes of blackmail: Simon Camp.
“I have a counterproposal, Mr. Camp,” Dolly said. “Shall I share it?”
“Fire away, Dolly.”
Dolly rose from his chair. “My counterproposal is that this second you leave my office, today you leave London, and by the end of the week you leave Mother England, or I shall find you and arrest you in the queen’s name.”
The visitor, grinning a little, bowed and made his exit at a leisurely pace, glancing once more at the heads of the executed rogues.
“God save the queen,” he mumbled.
* * *
—
Holmes slept well. It defied logic, he knew. Here he was, voluntarily embroiled in trying to resolve what seemed unresolvable, but it felt so much better than standing aside without trying. Correction: Holmes slept well until a persistent knocking at his hotel room door roused him early in the morning. A messenger waiting on the other side passed him a folded paper, pierced with what Holmes’s trained eye identified as a woodchuck’s teeth marks, on which was written in Browning’s hand a request to come to 16 Cheyne Walk (Holmes had learned Gabriel’s street’s name was pronounced “Chainie”) two hours earlier than planned.
It was a clear day and the streets outside already burst with activity. Finding a cab in London was easier than in Boston, where you had to wish on a star that one would come, but getting anywhere in a hurry in London was an exercise in frustration. A man did not know his place in the universe until he found himself a drop in the ocean of London, and an American in particular did not know his place until he faced the fact that seven dollars was worth one pound. The many flowers sticking out from men’s buttonholes and women’s hats did not change how dismal and gloomy the city seemed to him. But London was finally, in a sense, his true way home.
The doctor arrived at Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s house of strangeness right behind the cab carrying Tennyson, who’d received an identical message. The superbly energetic Christina, hair tucked under a cap in a fashion shared by precisely no women in London outside convents, told them her stunning suspicion that a soldier who had been reported by the newspapers as being present at the second killing was also at the first—recorded by Hughes in a sketch made in the early morning hours on January 14 now held by the moody art collector A. R. Gibson.
The sketch matched the photograph obtained by Tennyson. Reuben Loring.
“Remarkable,” Browning said, “that Miss Rossetti could recall the man from the sketch.”
“Remarkable, yes, but not unexpected,” said Holmes. “You see, Browning, you can very often carry two facts fastened together more easily than one by itself, as a housemaid can carry two pails of water with a hoop more easily than without it. You can remember a man’s face better than you can his nose or his mouth or his eyebrow. In this case the sight of the photograph was the second pail.”
The documents in Loring’s file, which in several places had a line or paragraph sliced or cut out (not unusual in government documents), gave his current domicile as “unknown.” That Loring’s name appeared nowhere in the London city directory provided them further frustration but was not unexpected. Soldiers who went back and forth to faraway assignments were often left out of the annual publication. Through her charity work, Christina had heard the names over the years of several preachers, ministers, and religious teachers who made a mission of helping soldiers back in London after being in the various campaigns and battles managed by the War Office. The chaplains of these nonsectarian “soldiers’ chapels,” as they were called, preached temperance and provided reading rooms of religious materials and other comforts. While Browning headed to examine municipal records, she made a list of churches to visit with Holmes and Tennyson.
As they went down the steps of Tudor House, Cayley was coming through the seventeenth-century iron gates. “Won’t I have the pleasure of your company this morning, Miss Rossetti? Gentlemen?”
“I’m afraid we are still engaged in a bit of our own research, Mr. Cayley,” Christina replied.
Holmes noticed poor Cayley’s face dropped like a flower scorched by the sun, and noticed further that Christina was entirely oblivious to it.
The first three religious officials the trio interviewed did not recognize Loring’s government photograph—one of the chaplains who was quite ancient couldn’t have recognized his own brother, for Holmes was positive he was half blind.
As a friend of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s, into whose arms children would often throw themselves, Holmes was no stranger to being around literary royalty—not to overlook Holmes’s own hard-earned fame from his poems and stories. Still, it was impressive to watch strangers react to the presence of Tennyson (even if some, one out of fifteen, say, thought Tennyson was Charles Dickens, to which the laureate would bark, “Can’t two men wear beards and take to the pen without being confused for the other?”). But if Longfellow’s gentle manner and otherworldly kindness kept his admirers charmed, Tennyson’s personality worked in the opposite manner. Tennyson was as shy as a bat with people he didn’t know, and could be aloof to the point of horrifying those who lionized him.
“Modern fame is nothing,” he told Holmes and Christina. “I shall go down, and up, and down. I am up now, as is obvious. But I’d rather have an acre of land. To own a ship, a large steam yacht perhaps, and go round the world, that is my notion of true glory.”
Holmes recalled Hawthorne years earlier telling him Tennyson shuffled instead of walked, like he was in too-big slippers; it was still true today, though the poet seemed to have grown into the slippers. Despite his shabby coat and his general disdain, Tennyson was a magnificent specimen and a kind of god to people, as if the poet laureate’s role was to watch over their good and bad deeds. While Christina (who seemed to will herself not to need to stop to eat or drink) was asking after a preacher in a nearby chapel, Holmes was crossing through a busy square with Tennyson toward a restaurant when they encountered a man Tennyson later said he’d never seen in his life. “Beg pardon, Mr. Tennyson,” the man said, with a swift motion pulling off his hat. “I’ve been drunk for three days and I want to make a solemn promise to you, Mr. Tennyson, that I won’t do so anymore.”
Tennyson seemed to enjoy this more than other interruptions. “That is a good resolve, and I hope you shall keep it.”
“I promise you I will, Mr. Tennyson!”
Holmes was surprised, given all this unsolicited adulation, how many times in a short period Tennyson inevitably introduced the topic of some critic or reader who savaged him. At one point, Tennyson quoted verbatim from an angry letter. It went: Sir, I used to worship you, but now I hate you. I loathe and detest you. You beast! You’ve taken to imitating Longfellow. Yours in aversion. Holmes coaxed out of Tennyson that he had received the letter some fifteen years before. Holmes understood, of course, the peril of the author who stood defenseless against negativity, but reminded Tennyson that writers should not mind what anyone said about them.
“Holmes, I mind
what everybody says.”
The laureate provided a stark contrast to Christina Rossetti, who Holmes noticed made herself invisible, in a public sense, despite the universally warm reception of the few volumes she published. Sometimes a passerby in workman’s clothes would see Christina and call out, raucously, “Come buy, come buy!”—as the goblin men did trying to tempt the girls of “Goblin Market.” Christina would shrink into herself. Holmes had heard her described as “mysterious and precise” by those who had met and esteemed her, and “cold and skittish” by those who met and were confused by her.
She was outwardly calm and stoic, but her inner life—Holmes suspected—must have been a swirl of turmoil and distrust. She blamed herself for every fault in herself and in the world. She was, in short, a sinner who had forgotten to sin. She was so interesting from the first moment meeting her, but she made absolutely no attempt to be interesting. How odd to think of her helping fallen women and Gabriel helping women fall. The descriptions of Gabriel, whom Holmes had never met, made the brother and sister sound like a study in opposites, but the doctor couldn’t help wonder if Christina might be Gabriel turned inside out.
Then there was Browning, who was on a separate errand for their cause in another part of the city. Browning’s noble head with its broad forehead and wide mouth reminded Holmes of an ancient warrior’s. His eyes were as bright as a child’s, and as open as Tennyson’s were suspicious. Upon greeting you he clasped your hand with both of his for a long time, looking squarely into your face, but in conversation he was far more interested in what he had to say (loudly).
It took three tries before Tennyson picked a restaurant he deemed inexpensive enough. “But you own a mansion on an island with butlers, and you and Longfellow are the most popular poets in the world!” Holmes objected. Tennyson replied: “Poets are poor, Holmes, no matter how much money they have. There were times I drank bitter drafts out of the cup of life, which tend to make men hate the world. I should have liked to be a country squire quietly living on eight hundred pounds a year, with wife and family. Come, let’s take some soup.” (The soup was cheapest.)
After they dined, Holmes and Tennyson reunited with Christina, who had not met with success with the latest preacher, and together they traveled to another house of worship on her list, to a gentleman called Reverend Fallow. Christina had met him when he had given sermons at Saint Mary’s. He recognized Christina, and confirmed that he ministered to soldiers.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, in addition to places of unfortunate women such as Saint Mary’s, I have been attending to these noble men of arms for some years now,” he said with an undertone of sadness. “I fear London presents a difficult place for the strongest people, ofttimes, and to go from the experiences of war back to this rather callous city can be especially trying. As long as they are active on the rolls of the War Office, the men are not allowed to marry and start families. No wonder so many of them are wanderers, spiritually and geographically speaking, as perhaps we all are in our own lives, at one time or another.”
Christina handed the minister the photograph. “If you please, Reverend Fallow, could you tell us if you recall this man attending any of your services?”
Behind the chaplain trailed a young woman with short hair that was black and glossy. Though nearly as tall as the chaplain, she appeared so timid she blended in with the scenery of the church. The dark-haired woman and the chaplain exchanged a long glance over the photograph.
“Yes. I recognize him,” admitted Fallow, unfolding a lime-colored handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his brow and brush aside chestnut curls of hair that were long enough to cover part of his bull-like face. “I know his name is Reuben—not certain if I even recall his surname. If you’ll excuse us, friends, I need a hand from Sibbie before we hold some meetings with church officials.”
“Just a moment more,” said Holmes. “Reverend, we believe this man could be involved in the terrible murders that have struck the city of late. Any information you have that will help us find him would be invaluable.”
A visible shudder went through the minister. “Do you mean—I assure you, Dr. Holmes, Reuben would have nothing to do with committing murders!” He composed himself. “I am afraid I’m confused why you’re even asking about such things. I would think the police would be the ones inquiring into that kind of matter.”
“We have reasons,” Tennyson replied, a little too haughtily to placate him.
“I fear it would take a long time to explain, and we would not want to trouble you,” Christina added.
“I really am not at liberty to reveal anything about the men we watch over. You ought to know the importance of remaining confidential, Miss Rossetti, having worked with those poor girls at Saint Mary’s. Besides, I would be rather anxious that amateur investigating, such as the lot of you seem to be engaged in, could bring trouble down on Reuben Loring or others who count on my protection for body and soul. Sibbie, if you please, we are falling behind a very busy schedule before we must leave the city. In addition to tending to whatever these men need in London, and delivering sermons at Saint Mary’s and other reform homes, some assistants and I also help operate one of the sanatoria outside of the city for those who feel alienated by the polluted surroundings, this tossing-and-turning metropolis, a place sicker than many of its patients.” He put his hand on the young woman’s shoulder and she turned away.
“Then you’ve remembered his surname after all,” Holmes said cheerily, causing the minister to pause midstep. “Loring. Progress, for sure! This is vitally important, I assure you.”
“As is my service to those who only seek a measure of hope when they are left without any. Please excuse us.”
* * *
—
When the questioners exited to the grounds outside the church, Holmes asked his companions whether they noticed anything odd about the minister and his assistant.
“His hand rather lingered on the girl’s shoulder,” Tennyson replied.
“I think she had something more she wanted to tell us about Loring,” Holmes said, indignation rising. The young woman tethered to the minister had reminded him of his daughter. “I’d wager he has a hold on that girl.”
“I’m afraid I was given a similar impression when Reverend Fallow visited Saint Mary’s—the way he looked at the girls as he preached . . .” Christina was too proper to finish her observation. She merely nodded to drive home her implication.
She insisted on looking around the rest of the church to see if there was anyone else to question about Loring.
Holmes felt a chill down his spine, and found himself drawn to look at someone behind them. “Tell me, Tennyson, do you think the police could have followed us here?”
Tennyson, taken aback by the idea, traced Holmes’s gaze: on the other side of the church gates, a large stranger, with a tint of dusk in his skin, paced back and forth, his hands resting on a cord tied around a loose-fitting tunic. “I don’t believe that man works with Scotland Yard, Holmes.”
“Not likely, I suppose. But he seems rather intent on something.”
As Christina rejoined them, Sibbie exited the church and walked the grounds carrying some books to a stone outbuilding at the other side of the yard.
“I’m going to try to speak to her,” Christina said, darting off.
“I’ll go, too,” Holmes remarked, still thinking of his daughter—as though Amelia herself, now far from England, could be in danger.
Holmes suggested Tennyson stay where he was. He did not want to make her feel interrogated.
“Excuse me,” Christina said, without a reply.
“Sibbie,” Holmes called.
“Isobel,” the woman said, turning around. She had a fragile, melancholy beauty.
“My apologies. I heard Reverend Fallow call you ‘Sibbie.’ But I suppose the chaplain’s informality may prove rather uncomfortable to you.?
??
“What can I help you with?” Her voice was as muted as her general presence. Her skin was a kind of alabaster, which made her soft blue eyes stand out even more.
“Please, it is crucial we find out more about Reuben Loring,” Christina said, “and learn where he is. Immediately.”
Holmes noticed through the veneer of Christina’s usual politeness a hint of disdain escaped. This young woman had yielded to the whims of a dictatorial man—perhaps the greatest sin to an independent woman like Christina, far more so than falling into the habits of the girls who turned up at Saint Mary’s. But giving Sibbie an order, as she was obviously accustomed to receiving from the preacher, was not going to help. If they were going to convince her to speak, it would fall to Holmes to do it.
“We know it’s not your doing,” Holmes said. “But if you know anything more, it would be helpful.”
She gave a hurried glance around her with her sparkling eyes, then, after brushing away a dark lock of hair, offered a very slight nod.
“I do know more. Something happened in the war, with Mr. Loring,” she said, then stopped herself.
“My dear,” Holmes said, “Reverend Fallow need not hear about anything you say, and Mr. Loring, wherever he is, will never find out that you have aided in our search. Do not fear repercussions.”
“You cannot understand.” She said this, before she hurried away, with a haunting emphasis on each syllable of her rejection—or, maybe no rejection was implied. Maybe it was a caution.
* * *
—
In an austere government office a mile and a half away, facing more mundane bureaucratic obstacles, Robert Browning prayed this strange prayer to himself:
Let this lead to our Cato.
Did the clerk notice his lips moving? Having copied the last address recorded for Reuben Loring in old tax ledgers, Browning took his leave to rendezvous with Christina, who had gone to the census office while Holmes and Tennyson searched for other congregants of Reverend Fallow’s soldiers’ chapel to question about Loring. Between the census office and the tax office, they had gathered five addresses the soldier had used at one time or another.