Murder at Sorrow's Crown by Savile Steven & Greenberger Robert

Author:Savile, Steven & Greenberger, Robert [Savile, Steven & Greenberger, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Historical, thriller, Suspense
ISBN: 9781783295135
Amazon: B01HMV0F9U
Goodreads: 31951116
Publisher: Titan Books
Published: 2016-09-13T07:00:00+00:00

Eleven

A Rematch with a Killer

The sun was long past the horizon when we crossed the Tyne, no glow to glimmer welcome across the tightly packed rooftops of the miners’ cottages and endless terraces. I was not sure what to expect as we disembarked in Newcastle. We followed a path through what can only be described as one of the seedier districts I have ever had the displeasure of visiting that led, incredibly, to one of the most beautiful streets I have ever seen. The buildings were predominately four storeys, with vertical dormers, domes, turrets and spikes, designed by the architect Richard Grainger. We were in Grainger Town, within which stood the Theatre Royal where Nayar was said to be performing his final shows as the entertaining mystic.

Holmes suggested that I find us rooms while he went to the theatre, where I would join him. I secured us temporary lodging at a small inn and was strolling towards the theatre on Grey Street, when Holmes appeared around a corner.

I could tell from his hunched shoulders that something was amiss. “He cancelled this evening’s performance,” said he without preamble.

“Can we not wait until tomorrow’s?” I asked.

“No. It appears the notice we saw in The Times was out of date. Tonight was to be a final curtain call. Word reached him of our coming and he refuses to make himself a target.”

“No doubt the same ones who arranged for the attack on the train,” I surmised. “A telegram would have outpaced us, even if the people orchestrating this are back in London.”

“Most likely true,” said he, his frustration palpable. “I believe our next destination is the quayside where, if I have judged this right, he may well be trying to leave on an earlier boat.” He set off to marching down the steep hill of Grey Street.

“Holmes!” I called after him. “You’ve been through much these last few days. Should we not go to bed and start afresh in the morning?”

His eyes were blazing with intent. “Nonsense, Watson. How will we feel in the morning if we go to the docks and learn he has fled? We must go now.”

I could not argue with his point so accompanied him, assuming he intended to take a cab to the Port of Tyne, which was in point of fact some considerable distance outside of the city proper. Not so. He led me a hurried chase down Grey Street, which turned into Dean Street as it curved around to the bonded warehouses on the waterfront. This was where the Keelmen operated, hauling coal from both sides of the river onto tugs that would take them down to the mouth of the great river where they would in turn be loaded onto colliers and shipped to destinations all across the country. Holmes announced that we would catch a ride with one of the keel crews to the port, which would be considerably faster than a carriage, though much less comfortable. Given that we would be sailing with twenty chaldrons of coal, it would be much dirtier, too.

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