‘Not at all. A few nights ago he was the witness to certain events in London. I merely wish to know what he saw.’
‘It sounds most mysterious, does it not, my dear? I will not ask you to elucidate further. We do not know where he came from. We do not know where he has gone.’
‘Then I will not take up any more of your time.’ Holmes turned to the door, then seemed to change his mind. ‘Though perhaps before we leave, you might like to tell us something about your work here. Chorley Grange is your property?’
‘Not at all, sir. My wife and I are employed by the Society for the Improvement of London’s Children.’ He pointed at a portrait of an aristocratic gentleman, leaning against a pillar. ‘That is the founder, Sir Crispin Ogilvy, now deceased. He purchased this farm fifty years ago, and it is thanks to his bequest that we are able to maintain it. We have thirty-five boys here, all taken from the streets of London and saved from a future picking oakum or wasting their hours on the treadmill. We give them food and shelter and, more important than either, a good, Christian education. In addition to reading, writing and basic mathematics, the boys are taught shoemaking, carpentering and tailoring. You will have noticed the fields. We have a hundred acres and grow almost all our own food. In addition, the boys learn how to breed pigs and poultry. When they leave here, many of them will go to Canada, Australia and America to begin a new life. We are in contact with a number of farmers who will be pleased to welcome them and give them a fresh start.’
‘How many teachers do you have?’
‘There are just the four of us, along with my wife, and we divide the responsibilities between us. You met Mr Vosper at the door. He is the porter and teaches maths and reading, as I think I said. You have arrived during afternoon lessons and my other two teachers are in class.’
‘How did Ross come to be here?’
‘Doubtless he would have been picked up in one of the casual wards or night shelters. The society has volunteers who work in the city and who bring the boys to us. I can make enquiries if you wish, although it has been so long since we had any news of him that I rather doubt we can be of any help.’
‘We cannot force the boys to stay,’ Mrs Fitzsimmons said. ‘The great majority of them will choose to do just that, and will grow up to be a credit to themselves and to the school. But there are the occasional troublemakers, boys with no gratitude whatsoever.’
‘We have to believe in every child, Joanna.’
‘You are too soft-hearted, Charles. They take advantage of you.’
‘Ross cannot be blamed for what he was. His father was a slaughterman who came into contact with a diseased sheep and died very slowly as a result. His mother turned to alcohol. She’s dead too. For a time Ross was looked after by an elder sister but we don’t know what became of her. Ah yes! I remember now. You asked how he came here. Ross was arrested for shoplifting. The magistrate took pity on him and handed him to us.’
‘A last chance.’ Mrs Fitzsimmons shook her head. ‘I shudder to think what will become of him now.’
‘So you have no idea at all where we might be able to find him.’
‘I am sorry you have wasted your time, Mr Holmes. We do not have the resources to search for boys who have chosen to leave us, and in truth, what would be the point of it? “
Ye have forsaken me and therefore have I also left you
.” Can you tell us what it is that he witnessed and why it is so important for you to find him?’
‘We believe him to be in danger.’
‘All these homeless boys are in danger.’ Fitzsimmons clapped his hands together as if struck by a sudden thought. ‘But might it help you to speak to some of his former classmates? It is always possible that he may have told one of them something that he would have preferred to keep from us. And if you would like to accompany me, it will give me an opportunity to show you the school and to explain a little more about our work.’
‘That would be most kind of you, Mr Fitzsimmons.’
‘The pleasure would be entirely mine.’
We left the study. Mrs Fitzsimmons did not join us but remained in her seat in the corner, her head buried in her weighty tome.
‘You must forgive my wife,’ the Reverend Fitzsimmons muttered. ‘You may think her a little severe but I can assure you that she lives for these boys. She teaches them divinity, helps with the laundry, nurses them when they are ill.’
‘You have no children of your own?’ I asked.
‘Perhaps I have not made myself clear, Dr Watson. We have thirty-five children of our own, for we treat them exactly as if they were our flesh and blood.’
He took us back down the corridor I had first noticed and into one of the rooms, which smelled strongly of leather and new hemp. Here were eight or nine boys, all clean and well groomed, dressed in aprons, silently concentrating on the shoes that were laid out in front of them while the man we had met at the door, Mr Vosper, watched over them. They all rose as we came in and stood in respectful silence but Fitzsimmons waved them down cheerfully. ‘Sit down, boys! Sit down! This is Mr Sherlock Holmes from London who has come to visit us. Let us show him how industrious we can be.’ The boys went on with their work. ‘All well, Mr Vosper?’
‘Indeed so, sir.’
‘Good! Good!’ Fitzsimmons positively beamed with approval. ‘They have two more hours work and then an hour of leisure before tea. Our day finishes at eight o’clock with prayers and then bed.’
He set off again, his short legs working hard to propel himself forward, this time leading us upstairs to show us a dormitory, a touch spartan but decidedly clean and airy, with beds lined up like soldiers, each one a few feet apart. We saw the kitchens, the dining room, a workshop and finally came to a classroom with a lesson in progress. It was a square room with a single, small stove in one corner, a chalk board on one wall and an embroidered text with the first line of a psalm on another. There were a few books neatly stacked on shelves, an abacus and a scattering of objects – pine cones, rocks and animal bones – which must have been collected from field trips. A young man sat marking a copybook while a twelve-year-old boy, acting as the class monitor, stood reading to his fellows from a well-worn Bible. The boy stopped the moment we walked in. Fifteen students had been sitting in three rows, listening intently, and once again they stood up respectfully, gazing at us with pale, serious faces.
‘Sit down, please!’ exclaimed the reverend. ‘Forgive the interruption, Mr Weeks. Was that the Book of Job I heard just now, Harry? “
Naked I came out of my mother’s womb and naked shall I return
…” ’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very good. A fine choice of text.’ He gestured at the teacher who alone had remained seated. He was in his late twenties, with a strange, twisted face and a tangle of brown hair that sprawled lopsidedly on one side of his head. ‘This is Robert Weeks, a graduate of Balliol College. Mr Weeks was building a successful career in the city but has chosen to join us for a year to help those less fortunate than himself. Do you remember the boy, Ross, Mr Weeks?’
‘Ross? He was the one who ran away.’
‘This gentleman here is none other than Mr Sherlock Holmes, the well-known detective.’ This caused a certain tremor of recognition among some of the boys. ‘He is afraid that Ross may have got himself into trouble.’
‘Not surprising,’ muttered Mr Weeks. ‘He was not an easy child.’
‘Were you a companion of his, Harry?’
‘No, sir,’ the monitor replied.
‘Well, surely there must have been someone in this room who befriended him and who perhaps spoke with him and can now help us find him? You will recall, boys, that we talked a great deal after Ross left here. I asked you all where he might have gone and you were unable to tell me anything. I beseech you all to consider the matter one last time.’
‘My desire is only to help your friend,’ Holmes added.
There was a brief silence. Then a boy in the back row put up his hand. He was fair-haired and very fragile and I guessed about eleven. ‘Are you the man in the stories?’ he asked.
‘That’s right. And this is the man who writes them.’ It was rare for me to hear Holmes introduce me in this manner and I have to say I was extremely pleased to hear it. ‘Do you read them?’
‘No, sir. There are too many long words. But sometimes Mr Weeks reads them to us.’
‘We must let you return to your studies,’ Fitzsimmons said and began to usher us towards the door.
But the boy at the back had not finished yet. ‘Ross has a sister, sir,’ he said.
Holmes turned. ‘In London?’
‘I think so. Yes. He spoke about her once. Her name is Sally. He said that she worked at a public house, The Bag of Nails.’
For the first time, the Reverend Fitzsimmons looked angry, a dull red patch spreading into the round of his cheeks. ‘This is very wrong of you, Daniel,’ he said. ‘Why did you not tell me before?’
‘I had forgotten, sir.’
‘Had you remembered, we might have been able to find him, to protect him from whatever trouble has come his way.’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘We’ll say no more of it. Come, Mr Holmes.’
The three of us walked back towards the main door of the school. Holmes had paid the cab driver to wait for us and I was glad to see he was there, for it was still raining heavily.
‘The school does you credit,’ Holmes said. ‘I find it remarkable how quiet and well disciplined the boys seem to be.’
‘I am very grateful to you,’ returned Fitzsimmons, relaxing once again into his more congenial self. ‘My methods are very simple, Mr Holmes. The stick and the carrot – quite literally so. When the boys misbehave, I flog them. But if they work hard and abide by our rules, then they find that they are well fed. In the six years that my wife and I have been here, two boys have died, one with congenital heart disease, the other of tuberculosis. But Ross is the only one who has run away. When you find him, for I am sure that you will, I hope you will prevail upon him to return. Life here is not as austere as it may seem in this vile weather. When the sun shines and the boys can run wild in the open air, Chorley Grange can be a cheerful place too.’
‘I am sure of it. One last question, Mr Fitzsimmons. The building opposite. That is part of the school?’
‘Indeed so, Mr Holmes. When we first came here it was coach-builder’s factory but we have adapted it to our own needs and now use it for public performances. Did I mention to you that every boy in the school is a member of a band?’
‘You have had a performance recently.’
‘Only two nights ago. You have doubtless noticed the many wheel tracks. I would be honoured if you came to our next recital, Mr Holmes – and you too, Dr Watson. Indeed, might you consider becoming benefactors of the school? We do the best we can, but we also need all the help that is available.’
‘I will certainly consider it.’ We shook hands and left. ‘We must go straight to The Bag of Nails, Watson,’ Holmes said the moment we had climbed into the cab. ‘There is not a second to be lost.’
‘You really think …?’
‘The boy, Daniel, told us what he had refused to tell his masters but only because he knew who we were and thought we could save his friend. For once, Watson, I am being guided by my instinct and not by my intellect. What is it, I wonder, that gives me such cause for alarm? Whip the horses, driver, and take us to the station! And let us just pray that we’re not too late.’
How differently things might have turned out had there not been two public houses in London with the name The Bag of Nails. We knew of one in Edge Lane in the heart of Shoreditch and, believing this to be a likely place of employment for the orphaned sister of a penniless street child, made our way directly there. It was a small, squalid place on a corner, with the stink of old beer and cigarette smoke seeping out of the very woodwork, and yet the landlord was amicable enough, wiping his huge hands on a soiled apron as he examined us across the bar.
‘There’s no Sally working in this place,’ he said, after we had introduced ourselves. ‘Nor has there ever been. What makes you gentlemen think you might find her here?’
‘We’re looking for her brother, a boy called Ross.’
He shook his head. ‘I know no Ross, neither. You’re sure you’ve been directed to the right place? There’s a Bag of Nails over in Lambeth, I believe. Maybe you should try your luck there.’
We were back out in the street immediately and soon crossing London in a hansom, but already it was late in the day and by the time we reached the lower quarter of Lambeth it was almost dark. The second Bag of Nails was more welcoming than the first, but conversely, its landlord was less so, a surly, bearded fellow with a broken nose that had set badly and a scowl to match.
‘Sally?’ he demanded. ‘What Sally would that be?’
‘We know only her first name,’ Holmes responded. ‘And the fact that she has a younger brother, Ross.’
‘Sally Dixon? Is that the girl you want? She has a brother. You’ll find her round the back but you’ll tell me what you want with her first.’
‘We wish only to speak with her,’ Holmes replied. Once again, I could feel the tension burning within him, the unremitting sense of energy and drive that propelled him through his every case. There was never a man who felt it more when circumstances conspired to frustrate him. He slid a few coins onto the bar. ‘This is to recompense you for her time.’
‘There’s no need for that,’ returned the landlord but he took the money anyway. ‘Very well. She’ll be in the yard. But I doubt you’ll get very much from her. She’s not the most talkative of girls. I’d get better company employing a mute.’
There was a courtyard behind the building, its stones still wet and glistening from the rain. It was filled with scrap of every description, the different pieces rising high up the walls that surrounded the place, and I could not help but wonder how it had come here. I saw a broken piano, a child’s rocking horse, a birdcage, several bicycles, half-chairs, half-tables … all manner of furniture, but nothing whole. A pile of broken crates stood on one side, old coal bags stuffed with Lord knows what on the other. There was smashed glass, great piles of paper, twisted fragments of metal and, in the middle of it, barefoot and in a dress too thin for this weather, a girl of about sixteen, sweeping what space was still available, as if it would make any difference. I recognised in her the same looks as her younger brother. Her hair was fair, her eyes blue and, but for the circumstances in which she found herself, I would have said she was pretty. But the cruel touch of poverty and hardship was also evident in the sharp line of her cheekbones, the arms as thin as sticks and the grime embedded in her hands and cheeks. When she looked up, her face showed only suspicion and contempt. Sixteen! And what had her life been to bring her here?