The Particular Problem of Postern Prison

Chapter One

It is said that every man has his burdens.

In my case, it takes the form of family. A brother who would wish to control my path and to whom I have not spoken for the best part of nine months; a cousin, Miles, who is a thief of talent and cunning; and his younger brother, Endymion, a cleric with strong opinions, sardonically-flared nostrils and a problem.

On that day, in late December 1878, his problem had become mine. He had sought me out in my depressed circumstances at St Bart's and had poured out a tale more suited to the pages of a penny dreadful than the ears of a sane man. Put simply, yesterday he had seen a dead man two days after he had been hanged for murder, alive and well and purchasing, of all things, a dressing gown in a gentleman's outfitters in Piccadilly.

Now he was adamant that the dead were rising from their graves. He was also eager to know what I was going to do about it.

Quite what he thought I could do in the event that there was any truth in his assertion that Judgement Day was at hand was not immediately evident. More practically, as I saw it, there were only two explanations, either that Endymion was mistaken or that he had seen the dead man as he had claimed. I tended towards the first, not least because my cousin did not make a particularly reliable witness.

If not mad, then he was very close to being so. In the short time since he had sought me out, he had accused the hospital's charwoman of having a wandering eye, a charge unwarranted against a woman of considerable girth and advancing years, had suggested that we ally against our unfeeling and overbearing brothers, and tried to convince me that the Last Trump had sounded.

Had I not been many months bereft of a case, I should have turned him from my door. As it was, beggars could not be choosers. My handling of my last case but one had cost me dear in terms of both respect and clients, and, loath as I was to further discredit myself in the eyes of the law and my peers in general, the prospect of something to occupy my all too abundant leisure time was appealing.

For that reason, I had suggested that we return to the scene of the crime, the little tailor's shop in Jermyn Street, where the dead man, Vamberry, had been seen engaged in improving his wardrobe. The case that had brought about his arrest, trial and subsequent execution had not been without certain features of interest and the press reports had already been added to my growing collection of cuttings. The man had been a wine merchant and from his trade had become rich beyond the dreams of avarice. He had loved and with a passion, a young lady from a noble family with a fortune quite the equal of his. It was, all had agreed, a good match. But one problem had stood in the way of their happiness: Vamberry's first wife.

No one at the time had known of the existence of the unhappy woman, confined to an asylum under an assumed name after the deterioration of her mental state many years before. Her death, though not unexpected, one month before Vamberry's re-marriage, had alerted one sharp-eyed attendant that all was not as Nature had intended. Unwisely, he had tried his hand at blackmail and had been found beaten to death some days later. What Vamberry could not have known was that the man had had an associate. In a state of abject terror, he had gone to the police and told them everything.

On this evidence, the first Mrs Vamberry had been exhumed from her pauper's grave and death by poisoning confirmed. A marriage certificate had been produced, exposing Vamberry's relationship with the unfortunate lady, and a witness came forward to testify that on the day of the lady's death, a box of confectionary had arrived for her, the remains of which had been fed to a stray dog. Hours later, both Mrs Vamberry and the dog were dead. The facts appeared conclusive.

The prosecution had had little difficulty in securing a conviction and Vamberry had duly been sentenced to hang. A half-column was enough to report that the sentence had been carried out to the satisfaction of all concerned, with the exception of the prisoner, who had been overcome at the prospect of his impending death and had been insensible throughout the proceedings.

Since these were the facts, any reasonable man might have taken the view that it was impossible for Vamberry to have been sighted only yesterday, not only alive but at liberty, and therefore conclude that either Endymion was mistaken or deluded. The latter theory I was determined to test; the first too could be verified, although Endymion had declared he knew the man by sight, having spoken to him in his cell in the days before his execution, when the prison's chaplain had been taken unwell and he had taken his post.

The next few hours would tell it one way or another. If nothing more than a product of his fertile imagination, I would suggest that he join his elder brother on the Continent for a holiday. If true, however, the impossible would have to concede to the improbable and an answer would have to be supplied. I would have a case, after months of toiling for a meagre living in the hospital's laboratories and feeling my intellect rot under the ceaseless burden of meaningless and routine tasks. Overall, I had hopes that Endymion was not as deranged as first impressions suggested.

Windrush and Sons was a neat, respectable tailoring establishment at the western end of Jermyn Street, setting itself apart from its competitors with a smart display of smoking jackets in the window and an assortment of winter pansies drooping beneath a crisp coating of ice in an untidy row above the shop's gold-painted name. On this side of the street, the pedestrian was shielded from the slanting rays of the low winter sun, so that it was possible to gain an unrestricted view of the shop's interior and the people within. Having thus proved that Endymion could well have glimpsed the man through the window as he had said, I was resolved to put the rest of his story to the test.

"You're going in?" Endymion demanded imperiously.

Since I had my hand on the door handle, one would have assumed that within was my likely destination. As absurd questions went, it certainly required an absurd answer, although I felt instinctively that it would be lost on my impervious cousin.

"How else am I to question the man about his customers?" I replied instead. "Unless you consider it best that we wait out here in the cold and hope that he comes to us."

At this, Endymion looked mildly offended, although less by my words and more at the insinuation. "You do not believe me, your own cousin? We are kin, Sherlock, flesh and blood. That must carry some weight with you."

He ended with a terse sniff, his nostrils flaring ever wider, an irritating habit that he indulged as a means of conveying his mood. From this curt example, I gathered that I was meant to understand that I had displeased him.

"Regardless of whether you are my cousin or not," I said, "I cannot take you simply at your word. Experience has taught me that people are not to be trusted, not even the best of them."

I nearly added that that was a lesson I had learnt well from his brother. Mindful that Endymion was probably ignorant of Miles's activities, however, I held my tongue.

"Whether by accident or design, one never gains the whole truth by listening to one person's account. I am bound to verify the facts, as I would do in any case."

"I am not any case," he retorted. "I demand that you believe me. I am owed that much by our family bond."

"What you are owed is a fair hearing. Beyond that, I reserve the right to exercise my own discretion."

Endymion's face turned a startling shade of puce. "Are you accusing me of making up this story?"

"No," I said diplomatically. "But perhaps what you saw was misinterpreted."

He pulled himself up to his full height, which was still not the equal of mine, and endeavoured to stare at me down the length of his nose. "It was not. I knew Vamberry. I talked the man. He showed no remorse for his crimes. I was appalled. That sort of behaviour leaves an indelible impression. I would know him anywhere!"

"And yet you also know him to be dead."

"You may scoff, Sherlock, but do not underestimate the power of evil. The man had no conscience. I would not be at all surprised if had sold his soul to Satan in order to aid his escape from justice!"

I have never been fond of conducting business in public, least of all when there are passers-by to turn and gaze curiously on the spectacle of a member of the clergy making an exhibition of himself. Endymion's friends would have described his behaviour as erratic at the best of times, but to the average man in the street he appeared simply insane. After several gentlemen crossed the road to avoid having to pass us, I decided it was time to bring an end to the matter.

"Why don't you go home?" I suggested. "I shall continue my investigations and report my findings."

"No," he said, dismissing it out of hand without a further thought. "You doubt me. Well, I shall come with you to question this tailor and when he has confirmed what I have told you, I shall expect an apology."

I suppressed a groan of dismay as I saw my chances of making any progress rapidly slipping away. "I should prefer to speak to the man alone."

"No doubt you would." He looked me up and down with a critical eye. "I suspect that you would not have much success. You hardly inspire confidence."

It was true that I had had better days. My sleep had not been peaceful and my conversation was punctuated by a troublesome cough that had resisted all efforts to subdue it for several months. I was aware I looked haggard and pinched, and was black around the eyes, but in all other respects my grooming was immaculate and my chin smooth. My circumstances may not have been promising, but I still had at least one good set of clothes left over from my exploits with Miles earlier in the year. Considering how hard he had tried to ruin my career, had soured my relations with Scotland Yard and had harboured thoughts of my death, the expensive tailoring he had left me was small recompense.

"But more than that," Endymion persisted, "it has come to my notice, Sherlock, that you display a distinct lack of faith in your fellow man. It is most unbecoming in a gentleman." He paused meaningfully. "If gentleman you are."

"As much as you, cousin. Our fathers, after all, were brothers."

"But mine did not marry beneath him."

I should have left. Failing that, I should have set him and his sneering expression on his heels in the slush. What actually happened was that our discussion was interrupted by the appearance of the shop's proprietor, Mr Windrush, a small, genial man with round glasses perched on the end of his nose and a glossy shine on the hairless part of his head. Evidently our squabbles had been the cause of some debate within, for despite his smile, he was hesitant and wary.

"May I be of some assistance, gentlemen?" he inquired.

"Yes," I said, silencing whatever Endymion was about to say with a withering look. "My cousin wishes to buy a dressing gown."

Windrush's smile broadened. "Then you have come to the right place. Come in, gentlemen, come in!"

I was about to follow when Endymion caught my arm. "What the devil did you say that for?"

"You wanted to make yourself useful. Now you can."

"But a dressing gown? I don't need a dressing gown."

"All gentlemen do," said I coolly. "That is, if gentleman you are, cousin."

I stepped past him and entered the shop, where Mr Windrush was selecting his finest stock for our inspection. Deep blues and opulent patterned purples gently shimmered in the light as he stroked his hand over the fabrics to flatten the creases.

"Now, sir," said he, employing his most winning smile against Endymion's evident hostility. "These are our finest silks—"

"The Devil wraps himself in silk! Take it away. I'll have none of it."

The smile faltered momentarily. "Quite so, sir. Not silk. Satin perhaps?"

"The stock-in-trade of painted harlots!"

"Wool then? I assure you our wool is selected from the finest, cleanest flocks in the country." He gestured to a waiting boy who darted away and returned with a garment in a colour best described as pea green. "Now, sir, you feel the quality of that. You will not feel anything softer, I dare say."

Endymion grudgingly ran his hand over it. "Yes, very nice."

"Do you wish to try it for size, sir?"

By the set of his lips and flare of his nostrils, I gathered that the answer to that was likely to be in the negative. Having come so far and endured so much, I was not about to let my ungracious cousin waste any more of our time with his stubborn refusals.

"Yes, he will," I said, much to Endymion's displeasure. It took a nudge to propel him into action. Whilst Windrush took his outer coat and helped him on with the gown, I took my chance to question the man. "Of course what we really wanted was a dressing gown that caught our attention in your shop yesterday. What colour now was it?"

"Red," said Endymion. "The colour of blood and bought by the wages of sin!"

Windrush smiled nervously. "Red, you say? Now let me think. Yes, I believe I did sell such a gown yesterday. The gentleman was most specific as to his requirements. Crushed red velvet with leaf-patterning and satin lapels."

"That's it! Who did you sell it to? Come on, man, out with his name!"

The tailor looked uneasy. "His name, why—"

"The gentleman who made the purchase was someone from my cousin's schooldays," I interjected. "They were at Harrow together."

"Harrow? Then it cannot be your friend, sir. Mr Robinson was telling me that he went to Marlborough."

"Robinson?" echoed Endymion. "Sir, you are mistaken."

"Sir, I am not," said Windrush emphatically. "I have the gentleman's name in my receipt book."

"Sherlock, he's lying. It was Vamberry, I know it was."

"Mr Windrush," I said, taking him to one side out of Endymion's hearing, "please excuse my cousin, he's a little excitable."

"He does appear to be so."

"He has had a most troubled life. Almost eaten by a lion in Africa, mauled by a bear in Russia, and troubled by a tiger in India."

Windrush glanced back at Endymion with new understanding. "Dear me, poor fellow. Most regrettable. But I don't see—"

"So you can appreciate that the sighting of someone he believed to be a former acquaintance was a cause for celebration for him."

"But the names, sir."

"Did I mention that an eagle fell on him in Scotland? Quite rattled his wits. But I have a picture." I fished the cutting with the likeness of Vamberry from my pocket. Having folded it so that Windrush could not see the name or the headline, I held it out to him. "Is this the gentleman who bought the dressing gown yesterday?"

Windrush's face lit up. "Yes, indeed, sir. That is Mr Robinson, upon my word it is!"

"Capital. I don't suppose he left you an address…?"

"No, sir, I fear not. He told me he was going abroad."

"Well, thank you, Mr Windrush, you've been a great help."

"And the dressing gown? It is twenty-five guineas."

I turned back to Endymion, who wore an expression of mortification and was shaking his head as though his life depended on it. The colour did not suit him and only endeavoured to make his complexion appear sicklier than before.

I grinned. "It's perfect, Mr Windrush. My cousin will take two."

So, two people saw Vamberry. Sounds like someone needs to go to Scotland Yard!

Continued in Chapter Two!