Holmes and Watson could only stand stock-still, gazing at the apparition. It tried to speak to them, but only meaningless blubberings came out. Recognizing its inability to communicate, it gave a sharp, keening squeal, then lumbered forward, deformed hands outstretched. It was almost upon them when Watson came to himself. “Back, Holmes, back! Don’t let it touch you!”
The two friends retreated, and unable to reach them, the monstrosity, which suddenly seemed to be ailing, slumped down to its knees, then fell forward onto its face. Its shoulders heaved three times as it struggled to breathe, then it lay still.
A stunned silence followed, finally broken by Holmes: “Randolph Daker, esquire, unless I’m very much mistaken.”
Watson knelt beside the body and pulled his gloves on. He was still reluctant to touch the thing, even with his hands protected.
“Have you ever seen the like of this before?” the detective asked him.
The doctor shook his head. “Some kind of fungal infection, but . . . it’s so advanced.”
“Is he dead?”
Watson nodded. “He is now.” He glanced up. “What on earth is going on here?”
“We must root around,” Holmes replied. “Uncover anything we can that links this fellow Daker with Harold Jobson.”
They began to search the premises, and immediately saw through the scullery window that the house’s rear yard had been adapted into a makeshift stable. A flimsy plank roof had been set up. Below it, up to its fetlocks in dung and dirty straw, stood a thin, bedraggled horse.
“Daker was a carter,” said Watson.
“In which case, he must have kept records,” Holmes replied. “Keep searching.”
Within moments, Watson had found a wad of dockets held together by a bulldog clip. “Receipts,” he said.
Holmes came over to him. “Find the most recent one.”
Watson leafed through them. The faint writing, poorly scribbled in pencil, was just about legible. “The last job he did was on April twenty-second, when he was to ‘collect sundry items for Mr. Rohampton’ . . . Tibbut’s Wharf, Wapping.”
Holmes was already making for the door. “Not twenty minutes from here. Most convenient.”
“Oh yes . . . now I remember,” said the pier master at Tibbut’s Wharf, a bearded giant in an old seaman’s cap. “That was the American chap, wasn’t it?”
“American?” said Holmes with interest.
The pier master nodded, then tapped his fingers on his desk. “Mr. Rohampton. He came in himself and made the booking. There were several crates and three passengers. They arrived on the morning tide on April twenty-second, on the Lucy Dark, a private charter from . . .” His memory faded. “Now, where was it . . . place called Innsmouth, I think? Does that ring a bell?”
“Innsmouth, Massachusetts?” Holmes asked.
“No, no, no.” The bearded chap shook his head. “Innsmouth, America.”
“I see. Well, your powers of recall do you credit.”
The pier master leaned back on his stool. “I couldn’t very well forget it. The passengers were all parceled up in bandages. Head to foot, they were. I assume this bloke Rohampton’s a doctor of some sort, and these were his patients?”
“Very possibly,” Holmes replied. “What else can you tell us about him.”
“If you’ll wait one moment . . .” The pier master opened a register and ran a thick-nailed finger down his various lists. “I think I’ve got a business address for him.”
Burlington Mews was a side street off Aldgate. Though it was part of the moneyed business district, much of the property down there was currently “to let.” Only one unit was in fact occupied; Rohampton’s Tea & Ginger. For a quaint-sounding company, its windows were partially shuttered, its decayed frontage smothered in grime. Only dusty blackness lay beyond its mullioned panes.
Holmes made to enter straightaway, but Watson held him back. “I say . . . aren’t we rushing into this, rather?”
Holmes considered. “Jobson said we have two or three days . . . at the most. We’ve already dithered for the better part of one day. I think it’s best if we press on as hard as we can.”
“Holmes?” Watson said. “Is everything all right? You seem . . . anxious.”
Again, the detective considered. It was one of those very rare moments when he appeared to be at a loss for words. “I’ve always, as you know, Watson, been a firm believer that every event has its cause and effect . . . is explicable, no matter how bizarre the circumstance, in scientific terms.”
Watson nodded.
Holmes regarded him gravely. “That doesn’t mean there aren’t worlds of strangeness that you and I have yet to encounter.” And he went inside.
More curious now than ever, Watson followed.
It was a small suite of offices, paneled in drab, dark wood, and extremely cramped. Even though the May day without was fine and bright, little sunlight filtered inside. No candles burned, no flames flickered in the grate. As well as the pervading gloom, there was also a distinct chill, an air of dankness. For all that, Burgess, the clerk who attended the visitors, seemed perfectly at ease in the environment. He was a short but thickset man, with only a few strands of hair combed over his otherwise bald pate, and a smug look on his pale, rough-cut face. When he approached, he did so with a pronounced limp; one of his legs appeared to be much sturdier than the other.
Holmes introduced himself, then offered a gloved hand. The clerk shook it. The detective at once took note of the fellow’s fingers. They were coarse and callused, the nails broken and dirty. The one thing that didn’t besmear them, however, was ink. Neither, Holmes noted, were there any ink stains on the blotter on the clerk’s desk, nor any writing on the ledger that was open there. While the clerk lumbered off to find his employer, the detective glanced farther afield. It didn’t surprise him to observe a fine sheen of dust covering the nearby wall of book spines, and strands of unbroken cobweb over the shelves where the stationery was stored.
“Gentleman!” came a cultured American voice.
They turned and, for the first time, beheld Julian Rohampton. He came lithely out from the dim rear section of his premises. There was at once an aura of the school sports captain about him. He was tall, of impressive build, and had a shock of fine golden hair. At first glance, he was exceedingly handsome, though up close he had a white, curiously waxen pallor and a silky, almost solid texture to his flesh. When he smiled, only his mouth seemed to move. His eyes remained deep set and startlingly bright.
“Mr. Rohampton?” said Holmes.
“The same. And you are the famous Sherlock Holmes?”
“I am. This is my friend Dr. Watson.”
“I’m honored,” said Rohampton. “But what fascinating murder case can have brought you here?”
“No murder case,” Holmes replied, “. . . as far as we’re aware.”
“We’re looking into—” Watson began, but Holmes cut him short.
“We’re looking into a theft. Our client has recently imported goods from America, and somewhere in transit between Tibbut’s Wharf and his home in Greenwich, certain of these goods have gone missing. I learned from the pier master that you yourself recently brought items into the country via Tibbut’s Wharf. I take it you haven’t experienced similar problems?”
Rohampton thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Not as I’m aware. It’s not that I make a habit of shipping in goods, you understand. The recent cargo was mainly botanical specimens. They were intended for an associate of mine. He certainly hasn’t complained that anything was missing.”
“I’m glad,” Holmes said. “Of course that doesn’t mean that no attempt at theft was made. The passengers who accompanied your imports, I take it they reported nothing unusual?”
Rohampton gave him a quizzical look. “Passengers? There weren’t any passengers. At least, if there were, they have no connection with my business.”