The Churchill Casebook of Curiosities
Book Four: The Mysterious Case of the Severed Hand
Chapter Three: Quantum Meruit
It’s not a competition, Gideon
Quantum Meruit
‘As much as he deserved’
狐假虎威
‘The fox borrows the tiger’s might’ (Traditional)
or,
‘Bully people by flaunting one’s powerful connections’ (Simplified)
Tuesday 5th August 1879: London
Eunice was unhappy, as I had expected. The Coffee House was heaving, the early evening crowd already leaning hard into the anticipation of their evening to come.
“I need help, madam!” she cried, barely supressing her frustration.
“I know, Eunice, I know. Please just one more night.”
“But there’s a level three madam,” she scowled.
“One night. Oh and do not let that man inside this building.”
“The love of your life, you mean?”
“Precisely,” I sighed deeply. “He is not to enter without express permission.”
“Very well. And what will you eat?”
“Nothing. Good night, Eunice. And thank you.”
Before retiring I considered the Baron’s confounded elephant for a few long moments. What was he trying to say to us? Was there some link between the three parts, something hidden within, or did they portend a greater mystery to come? Why so much obfuscation: if he needed help (and clearly he did) why not simply round up his fellows and do so.
I suppose the answer is with his biblical message: trust no one.
Only us.
Us.
Clement.
Curse that man. Why am I so addled in his presence and why does he crowd my every thought. His rejection has stung me to the core and I know not what to do.
I have not been at my best, of that there can be no doubt. Mistakes, presumptions, jumping to unbidden conclusions while Silas and Mr Blackwood work their methodical ways. I’m losing my edge whilst they, and the Baron’s mysterious foes, sharpen theirs. Was it always thus? I think not.
Is it because I am no longer enjoying the nectar of the Chinese? No longer dipping into the solace of South American clarity? Does a mind free of that baggage lead only to fogged and muddled thought, the burden of reality seeks another addiction to replace that lost. And this new addiction far less reliable, far more emotional, and, dare I say, far more dangerous.
Wednesday 6th August 1879: London
Eunice was pleased, though she did her best to hide it.
“You more than deserve it, Eunice. A third again what you already earn. And I want you to recruit a second-in-command, someone you can trust the way I trust you. Lulu perhaps, or the new girl Liberty. Whoever it is you must learn to lead them and empower them the way I do you.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Eunice nodded, “I will start immediately.”
“Don’t let this go to your head,” I smiled.
“No fear of that, Madam. Now, breakfast?”
“Muffins.”
The gentlemen arrived as planned for elevenses, ordering tea and Turkish coffee which I tasked Liberty to deliver to the boardroom.
The tusk and foot were lifted via the dumb waiter and we soon had them on display on the board table. Silas was kind enough to prepare the runner so as not to scratch the table (though a few new divots would only add character; it had lived through interesting time).
Liberty arrived shortly and I made sure to keep her outside the room with eyes off our ‘prizes’. “Thank you Liberty, that will be all. Find Eunice and make yourself useful.”
“You wouldn’t like help serv—”
“Not now,” I closed the door swiftly.
The next few hours were spent doing a forensic (Silas), scientific (Blackwood), and intuitive (sigh) examination of the trio of elephant pieces. We examined our own in detail, and swapped places to see if a second or third pair of eyes could detect something missed.
I provide only notes of long discussion, but I believe them accurate.
The foot
- it was an actual elephant foot, not a carnival recreation
- only young, given the modest size
- the poor creature had rather gnarly toenails
- inside the hollowed foot was a removable sheet metal bin, painted black
- the foot was stitched down the rear with thread that may be tendon or similar
- the sole was painted black with hob nails to pin it (hence the need for table protection)
- importantly: the entire foot was lacquered, covering the nails, thread, and insides
- there was no sign of the lacquer being interrupted or freshly applied in any spot
- our conclusion: the foot appears unmodified since manufacture
The tusks
- also lacquered from head to toe
- an engraved silver cap was rivetted on the larger end
- the cap hasn’t been opened since it was made
- indeed the rivets are also covered with original lacquer
- the engraving is African, geometric design work hammered into silverwork
- this design crosses the rivets, so nothing can have been removed since inception
- the tusk itself is of an African elephant, and the display was clearly made at the same origin
The head
- much the same; lacquered and undisturbed since being mounted judging by the seam and age
- one contiguous attachment to the backboard
- largely invisibly mounted by expert hand
- likely using a combination of glue and screws attaching to a hidden substructure
- unlike the tusk, this was a juvenile Indian elephant
In summary: there was very little chance the Baron had hidden anything inside our treasures. It appeared none had been modified or changed since manufacture, and Blackwood was of the firm opinion that the Baron had simply acquired these rather than having them made from a personal hunting haul. There were no common makers marks, and each appeared of different manufacture and indeed origin. The only commonality we could find was they appeared to be of roughly the same vintage: the lacquer worn in similar ways and of similar age. The gentlemen estimated at least ten years, if not slightly more.
At something of an impasse I foolishly suggested that perhaps there was some proximity magic that would enlighten us: magnets or the like. The gentlemen looked sceptical but entertained my notion long enough to shove the trio together. Of course there was no reaction and no revelation. Just three dumb elephants and me.
“I believe we must simply take the Baron at his word, for now,” I sighed. “We are to keep them safe, and hope that when he reappears he can explain why.”
“Indeed,” Silas nodded. “But there is another avenue we can explore in the interim.”
“My dear wife had some interesting observations regarding the sleeve,” Silas announced lifting said item from his carry-bag. He held it aloft and flicked a finger over the lower cuff. “See the way it is rather stiff, and not because of blood? Apparently that will be because it has an oversaturation of starch.”
“Starch you say?” Blackwood said, leaning in and feeling the texture of the silk. “The lady is quite right. Perhaps from a laundry?”
“A laundry?” I said, clueless.
“Yes. If the silk was part of a worker’s clothing, then the lower sleeve may repeatedly be dropped in starch.”
I was astonished. It was so simple. “That’s remarkable. Well done to your Hana,” I nodded to Silas, “And well done to you, Mr Blackwood.”
I thought Blackwood almost blushed, but his continued line of thought saved him. “And if they did work in such a place it would be an ideal way to gain access to a residence without attracting suspicion—simply delivering the laundry, nothing to raise suspicion.”
Again I was impressed with Blackwood’s logic, though Silas was sharper still. “That may be true, and perhaps the assailants use that technique elsewhere, but remember we know the means of ingress at Lichfield Hall: the broken pane through the glasshouse.”
“We must scour the Chinese laundries,” I announced, trying to contribute something to the wisdom of the menfolk.
“We should also interview Mr Chan and Wing, the magicians,” Blackwood suggested. “They may also know something about the silk.”
“I have Mr Chan’s card and can arrange another visit…however I would caution being too open with him.” I finally found a topic somewhat on my turf. “If it is indeed a Chinese syndicate that we are hunting, we have no way of knowing Mr Chan’s allegiance. If we say too much we may be revealing our hand early.”
Blackwood shrugged, and Silas gave no protest.
“Let me find out from Eunice who we use for laundry, and we can start there.”
I turned and opened the door only to find Liberty scurrying out of sight down the corridor. “Liberty! Stop right there young woman!” I yelled. The tone of my voice stopped her in her tracks.
“Ma’am, please, I—”
“Liberty! Have you been skulking outside that door for this entire time?”
“Oh Madam I am sorry, it’s just it’s so interesting—”
“Enough. Follow me and don’t say another word. I am most seriously displeased.”
Eunice was angry, and rightly so. “She did what?”
“She eavesdropped on the meeting upstairs, disobeying my direct instruction. Take care of it Eunice and don’t let her out of your sight.”
“You wicked girl,” Eunice said grabbing Liberty by the ear. “After all we’ve done for you. To the basement with you it is, quick smart!”
I called after Eunice as they departed. “Oh and Eunice, who do we use for our laundry service?”
“Wang’s of course,” she snapped, “In Limehouse.”
“And do you know of any that use a dragon motif?”
“Why would I know that Madam? Do I look like a scullery maid?”
A fair point, and I let her tone slip.
“We had a listener at the door,” I confessed to the gentlemen. “It seems there is more to young Liberty than meets the eye.”
“How long have you had her?” Silas asked, concerned.
“Only since our weekend away. Eunice picked her up in the Garden, said she was a sharp one and has proved useful. Now I wonder who put her up to this. Damn my absence,” I scowled.
And damn lack of observation. I would never have missed something like this. Even asking her to serve the coffee, a fresh girl with no background. Could I blame this too on Clement? It will not do.
We took a cab to Limehouse, asking it to slow as it rounded the crowded streets. There were people everywhere, mostly Chinese, and, curse our luck, mostly wearing various shades of blue. It rapidly became clear there was no chance we would spot our mysterious ‘dragon’ legend amongst the cacophony.
There did not appear to be uniforms marking which laundry the workers were aligned to, making the task nigh impossible. What was more the crews were almost all in some variety of cotton smock, not a silk to be found. We pulled up at Wang’s and I said as much to the gentlemen.
“Silk is expensive, Gideon,” Silas explained patiently, “So it is no surprise. Only the rich wear it.”
“Then why are we here, Silas?” I said peevishly.
“It was your idea.”
My idea. My idea! I was shocked. Silas was merely entertaining my absurd whims by being here?? I slumped back in my seat and squeezed my eyes shut, thumping my fists into the seat. “My idea! Well Silas. Why didn’t you say so if you thought it so absurd!? Why don’t you ask your wife what we should do, she appears to have a better head for this than I!”
Silas sighed. “Gideon.”
“Just stop. Please, stop.” I turned my head away to hide the tears.
Blackwood meanwhile had climbed from the cab and entered the laundry. Silas waited a moment and followed, whilst I sulked.
“Nothing to be found,” Blackwood reported back. “They do use starch, and I could see how a man could hide in a basket, but there is nothing below board here.”
“Nor should there be. After all they are not ‘rich’,” I glared at Silas, “And it is the laundry we use, not the Baron.”
Silas tapped the roof and directed the driver to continue the tour. Whilst I sat in a glowering huff, he and Blackwood keenly studied each of the steaming establishments we traversed. As we rounded the final street something caught my eye that I did my best to ignore.
“Stop the coach!” both Blackwood and Silas called suddenly. I peered out the window. Lo and behold…The Golden Dragon Chinese Laundry.
“You were right to come here, Silas,” I muttered snappily.
“This must be the place,” he said excitedly.
“Yes, well done Silas!”
“It’s not a competition, Gideon.”
“Oh yes it is,” I scowled.
This time Silas led us inside. The front room was busy with washing and, yes, starching, vats and barrels being worked by staff. Staff in blue silk uniforms with the dragon phrase embroidered on the sleeve.
We had stumbled into the very thing we sought.
Silas set about asking for their schedule of services, explaining he was a doctor and frequently required deep cleaning of blood stains and the like. The shop owner didn’t bat an eyelid, eventually agreeing to a discounted fee of four shillings and a half for a five bag service.
Blackwood meanwhile, having examined the starch pots, was sniffing curiously, as if trying to identify a scent beyond the overpowering laundry work. I wondered what he was up to.
“And do you do pick-ups?”
“We pick up. Now?”
“No not now, but it is included?”
“Included.”
Just as the negotiations were wrapping up an inner door opened and a large white-skinned gentleman slipped through, head down to conceal his face as best he could. I instantly knew what this meant, and why Blackwood had been tracing a foreign scent.
Opium.
I looked over at the frontwoman who looked back at me, turned her head to the still open door, and back to me. I nodded and walked through the door.
Inside were a series of tables upon which an exclusively Chinese clientele were engaging in a game of tiled pieces on green velvet. The clacking of the tiles was rather mesmerising, but not so much as what I knew lay down the stairs at the side of the room. A pair of double doors swung open, revealing a courtyard beyond where larger laundry was being processed.
Silas walked through the players, catching the eye of one player and nodding respectfully, in the Japanese manner. She was a handsome woman, and held his gaze for a moment longer than was comfortable before turning back to her game.
I stood at the top of the stairs and felt Silas’s hand on my shoulder. “Careful, Gideon.”
Indeed. But I had had enough of my emotions.
I descended to that which I sought.
Soft coughs and deep inhalation greeted me like a soothing melody. Chaise lounges and beds were occupied by the expected clientele. A man stepped over and indicated a free bed, to which I made my way without hesitation. A second room with a similar layout lay beyond. Silas came to join me, sitting on the edge of the bed with a grim look upon his face. I knew he hated this, and hated what I was going to do, but it was too late for regrets or warnings, and he knew it.
Blackwood innocently wandered into the other room, paying close attention to the guests. He was out of my sight when the maître d’ arrived with my pipe. I handed over three pennies—so cheap, is it any wonder so many become hooked—and lay back. Silas squeezed my hand as I freed it from his grip.
As I took my first dose, I heard Blackwood gasp.
“He’s here,” Blackwood hissed a moment later, appearing by our curtain. “The one handed—”
A rasp of fingernails tapping a tabletop stopped him. We looked over to see the woman who had met Silas’s gaze standing in the middle of the room. She smiled coldly.
“Have you come to finish my nephew off?”
