Secret Archives of Sherlock Holmes, The, The (20 page)

Although I admit I can at times be careless over certain facts regarding my accounts of Holmes’ cases, in particular their dating, the day that this case began is firmly fixed in my mind as if burnt on to it in figures of fire.

It was the second Wednesday of April 1896 and the time was about half past nine in the morning. Holmes and I had finished breakfast and, once Mrs Hudson had cleared the table, we removed ourselves to the two armchairs on either side of the hearth where a small fire was burning, the weather being a little chilly, to read the newspapers at our leisure as was our custom.

Holmes seemed restless that morning and, laying his newspaper aside, had risen to his feet to prowl about the room like a cat that cannot settle, pausing at regular intervals to glance out of the windows. He could not be
waiting for the morning post. That had been delivered before breakfast and he had read it over his bacon and eggs. There had been only a few letters which, after he had perused them, he had pushed to one side as if disappointed by their contents. In fact, the past ten days had been a particularly unproductive time for him. No one had written or called asking for his help with an investigation and consequently he was at a loose end, a very disturbing state of affairs to find himself in. Without the stimulus of an investigation to occupy his mind, he tended to become bored and might easily revert to that other unorthodox form of stimulation from which I had been trying to wean him for some time. Although I thought I had succeeded, with Holmes’ mercurial temperament it was impossible to be positive about anything. Depending on his mood, he could be maddeningly unpredictable at times.

With this thought in mind, I watched his movements with covert attention as he paced about the room, turning his head for what must have been the tenth time towards the windows.

‘Holmes—’ I began, but got no further than that.

‘I know what you are going to say, Watson,’ he stated in a dismissive tone, ‘but there is a purpose to my walking about in this fashion and also in my apparent obsession with the view from the windows. It is to make sure of the appearance of the young man who is watching the house so that, should the need arise, I can
give the police a precise description of him.’

‘Watching the house?’ I repeated. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I am, my dear fellow! I would not make such a claim unless I were certain of the facts.’

‘Perhaps he is a client or one of your many admirers who has found out your address and is hoping to catch a glimpse of you.’

‘I think not,’ he retorted. ‘Clients or, come to that, admirers, do not keep vigil for a whole day nor go to the trouble of altering their appearance from time to time.’

‘In what way?’ I exclaimed, quite taken aback by this piece of information.

‘By discreetly changing his headgear, for example, or occasionally even his hair.’

‘Changing his hair!’ I repeated disbelievingly, starting up in my chair so that I might go closer to the window to catch a clearer view of this extraordinary individual. But Holmes waved me back with a peremptory gesture.

‘Stay where you are!’ he ordered. ‘Although the lace curtains are thick enough to hide a general view of the interior of the room, sudden movements can be seen through them and, if you approach too close to the glass, my peeping Tom will almost certainly be aware that he, too, is being watched and this might frighten him off. If you must catch a glimpse of him, I suggest you stand well back and concentrate on the curtain to your left. About halfway down, there is a small tear in the fabric through which you can get a better view. But take care
not to stay there too long. He may not be able to see you in detail but he would certainly know if you were moving about or not.’

Following Holmes’ instructions, I carefully stepped to the left and, realigning my feet, found the tiny rent in the curtain, no longer than a man’s little finger, through which I was able to catch a glimpse of the street outside, unobstructed by the gauzy pattern of leaves and flowers that was woven into the lace.

Even so, the view was restricted and I saw only the hazy shape of a young man who gave the impression of a black-haired youth, slight of build, who was wearing dark clothes. I could not make out any details of his features but his stance suggested tension and an ominous pertinacity, although, had I been asked to explain this last impression, I would have been hard put to do so.

Behind my back, Holmes was saying, ‘I see you have found the little slit in the lace. I made that myself on purpose after our visitor first started watching the house last week. It makes my own observation of him so much easier.’

‘You mean he has been here before?’ I cried, turning round to look at him in some alarm.

‘Yes; last Wednesday.’

‘But why?’

‘There lies the mystery,’ Holmes replied. ‘Now do come and sit down, my dear fellow. If you remain like that at the window you will not only get a crick in your
neck but the man, whoever he is, may notice that you have been lurking there for some time and get suspicious. I do not want him to be frightened off until I have had the opportunity to discover who he is and what business has brought him here.’

As I resumed my seat by the fire, Holmes continued, ‘As I explained, I first noticed him last week purely by chance. I took him to be a reluctant client, nervous of approaching the house, but I soon realised I was wrong, for he remained there for at least three hours, pacing up and down and occasionally crossing over the street and resuming his vigil a few doors down. It was when he changed his wig that I became really intrigued and decided to let the situation develop to see what would happen.

‘After an hour, he set off down the street to number 217, where he disappeared briefly behind that large privet hedge by the gate, and when he reappeared he had fair hair and a tweed cap and what appeared to be a pair of eyeglasses. Later that afternoon, he reverted to his dark hair, although he had, in the meantime, abandoned the tweed cap and replaced it with a beret such as French workmen wear. He also seemed to have grown a small moustache, but as it was so difficult to distinguish details through the lace, I decided to cut that small eyehole after it began to get dark and he gave up the vigil.’

I listened to Holmes’ account in astonished silence
until he had finished, when I broke in to exclaim, ‘But who is he, Holmes?’

‘I have no idea,’ he admitted with a shrug.

‘And what does he want here?’

‘I do not know that either.’

‘So you are completely in the dark?’

‘Not entirely,’ Holmes replied. ‘Let us say more in the dusk. There are several facts about him which may be deduced.’

‘Such as?’ I asked, much bemused as I failed to see how Holmes, for all his detective skills, could have come to any positive conclusions from a few meagre details such as the man was young and was of medium height and build.

‘Well, there is the fact that the only other occasion he was watching the house was also a Wednesday.’

‘So?’

‘Oh, come, Watson! Do try not to be so obtuse!’ he chided me impatiently. ‘I think we may safely assume that the young man has some occupation that keeps him busy all week except Wednesdays. Now what does that suggest?’

‘That he does not have to work on that day, of course,’ I replied, thinking that perhaps Holmes’ deductive talents were not as complex as I had sometimes imagined.

‘Exactly so,’ he concurred. ‘Now let us take that assumption a step further. He has so far not appeared at the weekends, an important omission as most employees
are free at the weekend, if not on a Saturday then almost certainly on a Sunday, with certain exceptions such as …?’

And here he paused to cock an interrogative eyebrow in my direction. It was then I realised that I had stepped into a little trap that he had carefully laid for his own amusement. I tried to bluff it out.

‘Well,’ I began, racking my brains, ‘there are several possibilities.’

‘Such as?’

‘Oh, Holmes!’ I protested. ‘I am not in the mood for such games. But if you insist; perhaps he has a lady friend whom he visits on a Sunday.’

‘Well done, my dear fellow! You have come up with an excellent answer that even I had not considered. A lady friend! Well, he is young, I concede, so it is a distinct possibility but it gives rise to too many other questions, such as: Does he spend the whole of Sunday in her company? And if so, what about the evenings, when one would assume he is also free to go courting? No, Watson, ingenious though your theory may be, there must be a simpler explanation that does away with the need of the dubious delights of courting several young ladies. Whatever his employment is, he is free all day on a Wednesday until the evening. Now, that could suggest a shop assistant who might have a half-day on Wednesday. But a
whole
day? Consequently, we must think of some other occupation: that of the
catering trade, for example. If so, then he may work in a restaurant or a hotel. He could therefore be a chef, or a pageboy …’

‘Or a waiter?’ I suggested.

I do not know what put that word into my head, but as I uttered it, I saw Holmes’ expression light up and he clapped his hands together.

‘Excellent, Watson! Congratulations! Of course he must be a waiter. What does he do on a Wednesday but wait outside our house? Never has a man been so suitably employed. In future, we shall call him the Watchful Waiter. Do not you agree?’

‘If you wish so, Holmes,’ I replied, rather brusquely for, to be frank, I was becoming a little tired of his flippant attitude. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing amusing about a young man, waiter or not, keeping vigil outside our house for hours on end. To me, it had a sinister quality about it and, had I been in charge of the situation, I would have marched up to the man in the street and demanded to know what was the meaning of his behaviour, rather than spend my time peering at him through a hole in a curtain.

To give Holmes his due, he was aware of my exasperation and, seating himself once more by the fire, he adopted a much more conciliatory tone.

‘Now, Watson,’ said he. ‘What do you think we should do about him? I should like to have your opinion.’

Flattered though I was by this direct appeal, I
declined to be mollified by it and I expressed outright my preference for accosting the man face to face.

‘You are right, of course, my dear fellow,’ Holmes replied, ‘but excellent though your advice is, I shall not take it for the simple reason that I think there is some complex motive behind the young man’s actions. Do not ask me why because I cannot give you a rational explanation, except to say that, like Macbeth, my thumbs are giving me warning signals. You remember the quotation: “By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes”?
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Well,
my
thumbs are pricking and it disturbs me greatly.’

At this I sat up and regarded him seriously.

‘How do you account for that, Holmes?’

‘I cannot, Watson. It is a purely instinctive reaction that has no logic behind it. All I can give you in the way of an explanation is my feeling that I have met the Waiter before and that he represents danger. But I cannot for the life of me remember where or when I encountered him.’

‘What do you propose doing about it?’

‘For the time being nothing at all. I shall stay in the house reading the
Morning Chronicle
and writing letters. I might even sort and file some of my papers, which no doubt will please you, Watson. You often remark on their abundance and how they encroach
on our sitting-room.
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If the Waiter keeps to his usual routine, he will abandon his vigil at about six o’clock this evening. So, all being well, I shall start taking action tomorrow.’

‘In what way?’

‘To begin with, by sending a telegram.’

‘But could you not do that later this evening after he has gone?’

‘I do not wish to do so, although I am sure your suggestion was kindly meant, Watson. However, this man is an unknown quantity. I have no idea which way he will jump; neither do you, and I would not wish to place you, or myself, come to that, in any danger.’

‘But—’ I began.

‘But me no buts,’ Holmes replied, wagging an admonitory finger in my direction, only partly in jest.

So I held my peace and Holmes and I spent the rest of the day quietly at home, he sorting through the accumulation of papers, which he put away tidily in the box he kept in his bedroom,
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I in a more desultory manner reading through the lists of stocks and shares in
The Times
and deciding
which ones I might invest in should Holmes release my cheque book from its captivity in his desk drawer.
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The following morning, Holmes set about whatever plan he had in mind for outwitting the Waiter, having first made a preliminary reconnoitre through the slit in the curtain to make sure that, as he had anticipated, the coast was indeed clear, although, with his innate delight in secrecy, he omitted to tell me where he was going or to what purpose.

His destination could not have been far away, for he returned in less than half an hour, rubbing his hands together with obvious satisfaction.

‘That is stage one of my plan completed,’ he announced. ‘If all goes well, the second part should be completed later this morning. By the way,’ he added, as if changing the subject, ‘are you free at lunchtime? You have no prior engagement with your friend Thurston?’

‘No; I am free,’ I replied, wondering where all this was leading up to.

‘Good! Then we shall lunch together at Marcini’s
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at twelve noon.’

And with that, he retired to his bedroom, where I heard him playing a brisk little Scottish air on his violin, a sure sign that he was in a cheerful mood.

However, he said nothing more about the coming arrangement, such as whether or not it had anything to do with the Watchful Waiter, as he had come to speak of him, and when I asked him in the hansom on the way to the restaurant, he merely smiled in an infuriatingly secretive manner and turned the conversation to the gossip in the popular newspapers about the scandal of the Lord Mayor’s recent claim for expenses, including the purchase of a new set of solid-silver buckles for his dress shoes.