Secret Archives of Sherlock Holmes, The, The (9 page)

We discovered that Lestrade who, though lacking imagination, according to Holmes, is nevertheless an efficient officer in other matters, had indeed secured the rear exit by positioning a costermonger selling apples from a barrow by the back door while two other policemen in plain clothes were strolling up and down the street, chatting to one another and trying to look inconspicuous.

At the sight of them, Holmes nodded approvingly and we set off round the corner to the front of the building where Lestrade, also in civilian clothes, was waiting for us on the doorstep of the Kandahar.

After I had signed in my two ‘guests’, we moved into the dining-room where we were shown to a table facing the door on the far side of the room which, on Holmes’ instructions, the manager had reserved for us and, having been served, we began our meal. As arranged, I was sitting with my back to the door so that Carruthers would not see me when he entered and be frightened off. He came
when we were finishing the first course and were about to order the pudding. As a signal of his arrival, Holmes gently nudged my foot with his under the table.

I must admit I was tempted to turn my head to look at him, not out of curiosity so much as to satisfy myself that the description of him I had given to Holmes was correct. But I resisted and concentrated instead on the food that was in front of me and on the conversation that was struck up among the three of us, trying as hard as I could to behave naturally, a difficult task when I was tingling with anticipation and desire to see the infamous fraudster arrested and marched out of the club in handcuffs.

I did, however, allow my feelings to overcome my prudence and, on the way out of the dining-room, I risked a quick sideways glance in his direction. I need not have felt so anxious. Carruthers was tucking into a portion of steak and kidney pie and, between mouthfuls, was absorbed in reading a copy of the
Morning Herald
which was propped up in front of him against the salt and pepper pots.

There he was, as handsome as ever, his hair and moustache carefully brushed, and his black eyepatch neatly in place.

He appeared not to have seen us and continued eating and reading as we made our way through the door and across the lobby to the billiard-room.

Holmes had instructed us meticulously as to how we
were to play out the last part of our little drama. So, following his directions, I took off my jacket and hung it over the back of a chair that was within reach of the door and that itself had been deliberately left half open. Lestrade placed himself near the billiard table, as if he intended watching the game. Meanwhile, Holmes and I chose our cues and went through the pretence of setting out the balls and tossing a coin to decide who should go first. Holmes won the toss. After that, all we had to do was to push the balls about, Holmes taking the initiative, while I was careful to stand with my back to the door so that Carruthers, when he came, would not see my face.

The trap was set. From then on, it was simply a matter of waiting for Carruthers to arrive.

He came.

With my face averted, I did not actually witness his arrival. All I heard was Lestrade’s voice calling out, ‘Hey, you! Wait a moment!’, followed by the clatter as Holmes’ cue fell to the floor and then the sound of footsteps running across the parquet floor.

I whirled round and was just in time to see Holmes and Lestrade struggling in the doorway with Carruthers, who was fighting in a most ungentlemanly manner that obeyed no rules that I was aware of, certainly not Queensberry’s.
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It was Holmes who brought him down with a rapid uppercut to the jaw
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and he fell as if he had been poleaxed, the skill and swiftness of the blow giving rise to an outburst of spontaneous applause from the small group of bystanders comprising waiters and club members who had been attracted to the scene by the noise.

Lestrade immediately despatched one of the waiters to collect the plain-clothes men who had been guarding the back door before sending another to call up a
four-wheeler
. While waiting for its arrival, he snapped a pair of handcuffs on Carruthers’ wrists and began swiftly searching his pockets.

As he had suspected, several cheques, torn from my cheque book, were found on him and these Lestrade promptly confiscated along with the book itself, as evidence of the man’s larceny. So for the second time in as many months, I was deprived of my cheque book.

But it was a small price to pay for having the satisfaction of Cheeseman alias Carruthers alias half a dozen other assumed names sent for trial and sentenced to several years’ hard labour by the judge who, in his summing up, referred to his long career of theft, fraud and forgery, not to mention his general moral turpitude.

‘I have not felt so much pleasure over the outcome of
an inquiry since the arrest of the three-handed widow,’ Holmes remarked, laying down the
Morning Chronicle
, which contained a detailed report of the trial.

‘The three-handed widow?’ I exclaimed in surprise, for it was the second time my old friend had referred to this particular individual.

‘Indeed, Watson. And a more demure and prim little woman you could not wish to meet in a month of Sundays. Remind me to tell you about the case one of these days. You can add it to your collection of highly coloured narratives concerning my career. In the meantime, I would appreciate a little silence while I finish reading this account of Lady Petersham and the gypsy fortune-teller.’

And with that, he shook out the pages of the newspaper and disappeared behind them.

In the event, it was nearly January before Holmes found the time to recount the case of the three-handed widow. Several other investigations came up which demanded his immediate attention, among which was an urgent request on behalf of the Bishop of Sunderland to inquire into the identity of the person who was ordering quite unsuitable merchandise to be delivered to the palace, cash on delivery. It was only after that embarrassing business had been successfully cleared up that he found the leisure to turn to that other case, the details of which, I must confess, I was impatient to hear.

A three-handed widow! Could Holmes be joking?

As I remember, it was a bitterly cold day and strangely silent, for an overnight snowfall had deadened all sound from the street outside our windows, where there was no movement of either people or traffic. The whole world,
it seemed, had turned white, against which the branches of the leafless trees and the lamp posts stood out stark and black under the pewter-coloured sky.

Inside our sitting-room, however, all was warmth and light. The gas lamps were lit and a cheerful fire burned in the hearth, its bright glow reflected in the bowl of oranges on the table.

Holmes and I sat close to the fire, both of us silent, as if the snow had cast its stillness over us as well, until suddenly my old friend roused himself and, taking his pipe out of his mouth, remarked, ‘Tell me, Watson, did I ever give that account I promised you?’

‘Which one?’ I asked.

‘The three-handed one.’

‘No, you have not told me about that yet.’

‘Ah! I thought not. I had forgotten about it myself until this recent inquiry regarding the bishop and the chaplain, which reminded me of that other investigation which also concerned members of the church, a vicar and a curate in that particular case. Would you like to hear it, my dear fellow?’

‘Indeed I would,’ I replied warmly.

‘Then,’ said Holmes with a smile, ‘I shall begin.

‘It happened while I was still living in Montague Street and had not long begun to earn my living as a consulting detective, although my reputation was starting to grow and I was developing quite a satisfactory circle of clients. Among the most interesting to come my way in those
early days were a pair of clergymen, the Rev. Samuel Whittlemore, the vicar of St Matthias the Less of Fountain Square, Chelsea, and his curate, James Thorogood.

‘I had received by post a request from the Rev. Whittlemore for an appointment at half past three on a Wednesday afternoon in October but the letter gave no clue for the reason behind this request, nor the fact that he would be accompanied by his curate, and it was much to my surprise that
two
clerical gentlemen were shown into my sitting-room in Montague Street.

‘The senior of the two, the Rev. Whittlemore, was a tall, elderly, stoop-shouldered man with a beaky profile and thin white hair through which patches of shiny scalp were visible. He had about him an air of disapproval, some of which was directed at me but some, I felt, was also turned on his companion, James Thorogood, perhaps simply for being young and good-looking and of a normally cheerful disposition, although at the time of our meeting he seemed uncharacteristically cast down.

‘I was soon to discover the cause of his low spirits.

‘As I might have guessed, the Rev. Whittlemore took charge of the interview from the beginning. Eyeing me with considerable suspicion, he remarked, “I assume you
are
Mr Sherlock Holmes? Only you look far too young and inexperienced to be an expert on any subject, let alone crime.”

‘After I had assured him of my competence by pointing out that, on occasion, Scotland Yard officers
had consulted me
1
about certain investigations, he climbed down as far as to remark, “Well, young man, we shall see how successfully you handle my particular case,” in a tone of voice which suggested he had no great trust in my competence.

‘As you may imagine, this little exchange had left me rather annoyed with my reverend client and I was about to suggest that he looked elsewhere for another older and wiser consultant to take my place when his animosity shifted from me to his curate, on whom he cast a condemnatory glance before announcing in a high-pitched, nasal voice, “The matter I wish to lay before you, Mr Holmes, is quite outrageous. It concerns a member of my congregation, an elderly lady of high reputation and social standing, who shall be nameless. Last Sunday morning, she was robbed of her reticule containing a considerable sum of money after attending matins in
my
church.”

‘The tone of his voice suggested that some outraged comment was expected on my part, but I could raise nothing more than a low murmur of disapproval, not even a “tut-tut”.

‘There is nothing I dislike more than having my emotions orchestrated for me, particularly when the
person doing the orchestration is a cold, humourless individual such as Whittlemore. I also suspected that the lady in question was almost certainly wealthy and contributed generously to the upkeep of St Matthias the Less, and probably also to Whittlemore’s stipend, hence his grievance.

‘So I replied in a non-committal voice, “I see. When exactly did this robbery take place? Was it during the service?”

‘“No, after the service,” he corrected me sharply, as if I ought to have known this simple fact. “When matins was finished, I went, as usual, to stand in the porch to shake hands with the members of the congregation as they left and to thank them for coming. It is, I feel, a courtesy on my part which is much appreciated. Mr Thorogood stands on the other side of the porch to carry out a similar duty.”

‘This last sentence was spoken dismissively as if the curate’s presence was of little consequence.

‘“I should explain,” the Rev. Whittlemore continued, “that my services are very popular and always draw a large congregation so that the porch can become quite crowded on occasions. In fact, it was only after the last person had left that I was aware that anything untoward had happened. The lady in question returned to the porch in some distress. It seemed that a purse containing three guineas,” and here he paused to give me time to register the exact value of the sum of money which had
been stolen, before repeating it with greater emphasis, “
three guineas
had been taken from her reticule!”

‘I felt I ought to make some response this time, so I remarked, “Quite a large sum.”

‘“Indeed it is!” he concurred. “The point is it must have been stolen when the lady was leaving the church. There was quite a crowd of people in the porch waiting to shake hands and, in the crush, someone must have taken a knife or a pair of scissors and slit open the lady’s reticule, which she was carrying on her wrist, before slipping a hand inside the receptacle and removing the purse. Besides the money it contained, the purse itself was quite a valuable object. It was of embroidered satin that must have cost at least a guinea in a West End emporium.”

‘Again, this emphasis on money, I noticed.

‘“Did anyone witness the theft?” I asked.

‘The Rev. Whittlemore turned deliberately towards his curate who was perched in silence by his side, looking uncomfortable, his pleasant features contracted into an expression of acute anxiety.

‘“Well?” he demanded.

‘“I am afraid I was nearest to Lady …” he began, and then fell guiltily silent when the Rev. Whittlemore cleared his throat as a warning not to mention any names.

‘“I am so very sorry,” the curate stammered. “I meant to say the lady concerned …”

‘I decided it was time I intervened, partly to put the
poor young man out of his misery but largely, I must admit, to bring the interview forward and to prevent Whittlemore from holding up the proceedings any further.

‘“As you are clearly anxious to protect the lady’s anonymity, may I suggest we refer to her as ‘Lady Dee?’ I announced and was pleased to see the young curate looked grateful for the suggestion. Even the Rev. Whittlemore bowed his head in agreement, a minor victory, I felt.

‘“So please continue,” said I, addressing the curate. “You said you were standing near Lady Dee when the theft must have taken place. Did you notice anyone in particular close by; almost certainly another woman?”

‘“You seem very sure it was a woman, young man,” Whittlemore interjected in a condescending tone of voice.

‘“Indeed I am!” I retorted sharply, for by this time I was becoming exasperated by his superior attitude. “I have some experience of pickpockets, both male and female. It would be most unusual for a male thief to approach close enough to a female victim under those circumstances to pick her pocket, or in this case her reticule. Had a man done so, the lady would have instinctively drawn away and by doing so would have attracted attention to him. The art of picking pockets is to be inconspicuous. That is why I suggested a female thief.”

‘I was pleased to see that Whittlemore himself
withdrew to the extent of leaning back in his chair and thereby signalling that I had won that particular round in the battle of wits, which gave me a little triumphant thrill. I was then still young and brash enough to delight in getting the better of an opponent, especially of a clergyman who had too high an opinion of himself.

‘“Well, there was one lady,” the curate began hesitantly. “But I cannot believe she could be responsible …”

‘“Why?” Whittlemore demanded. But I was determined not to let him take charge again, so I overrode him, despite his years and his clerical standing.

‘“Please describe her in as much detail as you can recall,” I said, pointedly addressing my remarks to the young curate, who seemed relieved by my assumption of authority.

‘“She was in her twenties, I should think,” Thorogood replied. “About five feet six inches in height; recently widowed, for she was dressed completely in black which looked new, including her bonnet and her reticule that she was carrying in one hand. With the other she was holding a little girl about three years old, also dressed in black. The child had fair hair and was very pretty, like her mother.”

‘The last detail seemed to slip involuntarily from the curate’s lips, for no sooner had he spoken the words than he looked flustered and the blood ran up into his cheeks. It was quite obvious that the young man had been attracted to the widow and was embarrassed that
he had made this apparent to a stranger and, more pertinently, to his vicar, who cleared his throat in a most disapproving manner.

‘Witnessing this little scene, I was convinced that for all his mature years and priestly training, Whittlemore was still human enough to experience the more corporeal emotions such as envy, one of the deadly sins, perhaps even physical desire, although he would never admit that in a thousand years. These feelings were, I thought, probably the root cause of his dislike of his young curate. My own reaction was unexpected and I was considerably taken aback for, in that moment, I felt I had learned more about human nature than I had ever acquired before in all my years of book learning.

‘It was therefore with this newly won enlightenment that I turned back to the Rev. Whittlemore and asked in as pleasant a manner as I could muster, “I understand your dilemma, sir, and I shall do my very best to resolve it. Your curate has given me an excellent description of the person who almost certainly carried out the theft and I shall do all I can to trace her.”

‘It was evident that Whittlemore had not himself experienced an equivalent moment of personal enlightenment for he snapped back at me with his old animosity, “With discretion, I trust.”

‘I dared not reply in case I made my exasperation too obvious, so I merely bowed my head in agreement before escorting the two of them to the door.

‘It was only after I had returned to my chair that the full consequences of what I had done dawned on me. Foolishly, I had allowed myself to be forced into a commitment which I had no idea how to carry out. That was another lesson I learned that morning, Watson. Never raise the hopes of a client about the outcome of a case unless you know you can fulfil them. Self-confidence is one thing; complacency is quite another.

‘As I sat there that morning, the reality of the situation became painfully apparent. I had assumed from the beginning that the young woman whom Thorogood had described so vividly was indeed the thief. But what if I were wrong and someone else in the crowded porch had stolen the old lady’s purse? Or the theft had occurred inside the church?

‘I realised I had been arrogant in acting so dismissively towards the Rev. Whittlemore, who might himself have valuable evidence regarding the young woman and the child. Perhaps she was a regular member of his congregation whose name and address were known to him.

‘I saw there was no other recourse but to seek out the Rev. Whittlemore and eat humble pie. So I learned another painful lesson that morning, Watson. Never antagonise your potential witnesses if you can possibly avoid it.

‘Thank goodness, I had at least kept Whittlemore’s visiting card which gave me his address, and consequently
the following morning I set off by cab for St Matthias the Less in Fountain Square, trusting that the vicar would be at home and willing to receive me.

‘The church was an elegant eighteenth-century edifice set in a quiet part of Chelsea. The vicarage was not so charming. Built of white stucco, it faced a burial ground crowded with gravestones and enclosed by high black railings which put me in mind of the Rev. Whittlemore. It had the same severe, forbidding look about it and it was with considerable misgivings that I mounted the steps to the front door and rang the bell.

‘An elderly black-clad woman answered the door, Whittlemore’s housekeeper, I assumed, and I
half-expected
the kind of grudging welcome that he would have given me and was therefore surprised and relieved when she took my proffered card with a smile and invited me into the hall, where I waited for a few moments before she ushered me into the rector’s study.

‘It could have been a handsome room, for it had the proportions of the Georgian period, with an elegant plaster cornice and a single long sash window. Unfortunately, it was full of large, ugly, dark oak furniture and the view through the window was of the churchyard, with its gravestones crammed shoulder to shoulder and only an occasional angel of discoloured marble to relieve the severity of the melancholy rows.