The Secret Files of Sherlock Holmes (17 page)

On my return to Baker Street the following morning, Holmes ordered a hansom and we set off first of all for number 14 Cadogan Crescent, an imposing residence just off the Square, where Holmes alighted and rang the bell. After a short conversation with the parlourmaid who opened the door, Holmes returned to the cab to announce that the house was no longer occupied by the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister. The present residents had taken over the lease in June of the previous year and knew nothing about any earlier tenants.

From there, we drove to Maplehurst Avenue, Streatham, where we hoped to have better luck.

Maplehurst Avenue was a pleasant, tree-lined road of modern detached houses, standing in quite large grounds, number 26 being situated about half-way down. But from the neglected state of the garden and the absence of smoke from the chimneys, the place appeared to be empty, an impression confirmed by the ‘To Let’ board nailed to the front gate post.

The house-agents were Palfrey and Dickinson, with an address in Streatham High Road to which, on Holmes’ instructions, the cab-driver took us.

On this occasion I accompanied him into the office, where Holmes spoke to Mr Palfrey, explaining the reason for his visit. Mr Palfrey, however, could tell us very little about his erstwhile tenants, the Duckhams. They had rented the house furnished the previous summer for three months, the rent being paid in advance by Mr Duckham, whom Mr Palfrey described as being ‘tall and well-dressed but not really what he would call a gentleman’.

‘A little too flash, if you know what I mean,’ Mr Palfrey added.

As for Mrs Duckham, Mr Palfrey had seen neither her nor any domestic staff who might have been employed in the house.

The Duckhams had moved out at the beginning of September, their three-month lease having expired. They had left no forwarding address. Only one letter had arrived after their departure, which Mr Palfrey had opened and had returned to an address in Bow, marking the envelope ‘No Longer in Residence’.

And that was all he could tell us about the Duckhams, apart from the canary cage.

‘Canary cage?’ Holmes inquired.

‘Mr Duckham asked if he could have a shelf put up in the conservatory. Evidently he had a large cage of canaries which he wanted to raise off the floor because of the draughts. I agreed and recommended a jobbing carpenter. As far as I am aware,
the shelf is still there. And that is really all I know about them,’ Mr Palfrey concluded.

Holmes was in a pensive mood on the return journey and I knew better than to break the silence although I could not understand why the case should require such deep contemplation on his part.

It seemed ordinary enough to me.

At Baker Street, I kept the cab to go on to my consulting rooms, realising that Holmes would probably prefer to be alone with his thoughts.

As we parted, he remarked, ‘I shall be in touch with you, Watson, as soon as there are any developments in the case.’

But I heard nothing from him and I did not, in fact, see Holmes again for another three weeks. There was a sudden outbreak of bronchial infections due to the cold weather and my time was taken up with visiting patients.

It was a Friday evening in February before I had the leisure to call in again at Baker Street to find Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard already there, seated by the sitting-room fire, while Holmes was pacing up and down in a state of considerable excitement.

‘My dear fellow!’ he exclaimed as I entered. ‘How fortunate you have come! The Inspector has just been telling me of an extraordinary case. Pray repeat the details of it, Lestrade, for Watson’s benefit.’

‘I don’t know about it being extraordinary,’ Lestrade said, turning his lean, sallow face in my direction. ‘God knows we get enough suicide victims fished out of the Thames, especially at this time of the year. They’re usually poor, homeless devils, beggars and such-like, who can’t face another winter’s night sleeping on the streets. But this one is different. She was found floating in the river near Wapping about two hours ago by a bargeman; a young woman, well-dressed and nourished; pretty, too, if you disallow for the effects of drowning. The fact is, Dr Watson, and it’s the reason I’ve called on Mr Holmes, it’s the second case like it in the past six months …’

‘Holmes, you don’t think –?’ I began eagerly, interrupting Lestrade’s account.

I had been about to ask if he thought either of the young women could be Rosie Hare. But Holmes frowned and gave a little shake of his head to indicate that I was to say nothing on the subject.

Lestrade was watching us, his sharp, little eyes bright with curiosity.

‘Yes, Dr Watson?’ he asked. ‘You were saying?’

‘My old friend was merely going to remark,’ Holmes put in easily, his expression perfectly bland, ‘that I might find the case useful for the statistical tables I am compiling on suicide victims – their ages, social backgrounds and so on. But pray continue, Lestrade. You were speaking of the similarity of this case to another six months ago.’

‘So I was. Well, Dr Watson, both victims were young women who, judging by their appearances, didn’t seem the type to chuck themselves into the river. And both had been struck on the temple before they drowned. Now, I’m not saying it’s murder. They could have injured themselves as they fell. But it’s too much of a coincidence for my liking. There’s another odd thing as well about that first suicide. No one reported a young woman of her description as missing and no one came forward to claim the body. That’s why I have called on Mr Holmes this evening. As they say, two heads are better than one.’

‘Or three in this instance,’ Holmes remarked. ‘What do you say, Watson? Lestrade tells me the body has been taken to Wharf Street police station. I was about to accompany him there. Would you care to join us? As a medical man, you may very well be able to help the inquiry by examining the corpse and giving us your professional opinion.’

‘Of course, Holmes,’ I said. ‘Although the police surgeon has no doubt made his own examination, there may be some further details I can add to his report.’

We left the house shortly afterwards and, as Lestrade hurried ahead to hail a passing cab, Holmes took the opportunity to say to me in a low voice, ‘Say nothing to Lestrade about Rosie Hare.’

I could not understand his reticence over the case but I
complied with his request and kept silent on the journey to Wharf Street, merely listening as Lestrade described a series of burglaries at large country houses in which valuable art treasures had been stolen.

‘I am surprised,’ Lestrade remarked at one point, ‘that none of the victims has asked for your help, Mr Holmes, for I don’t mind admitting that neither the local constabularies nor us at the Yard have been able to discover who is behind these felonies.’

On our arrival at Wharf Street police station, we were conducted by the duty sergeant into a small back-room which had been turned into a temporary mortuary and where the body, covered with a rough blanket, was lying on a trestle table.

Lestrade declined to come with us, having made his own examination earlier, and Holmes and I entered the room alone.

As I removed the blanket, I immediately saw the bruise to which Lestrade had referred. It was a large contusion and, in my opinion, would have caused unconsciousness but whether the injury was the result of a deliberate blow or an accident there was no way of telling.

Apart from this bruise, the face was unmarked, except for the obvious signs of drowning, never a pleasant sight. But, as Lestrade had pointed out, beneath the discoloration and the bloating of the features, it was still possible to discern that, when alive, the young woman, who could have been no more than fifteen or sixteen, had been remarkably attractive. The hair was long and dark, the form slim and shapely while the clothes she was wearing, a red silk dress and a fur-trimmed cloak, were fashionable and of a good quality.

From the degree of rigor mortis, I estimated that she had been dead for about twenty-four hours.

Holmes, meanwhile, was making his own examination, lifting each flaccid hand in turn and then moving the head a little to the left to expose the neck, revealing as he did so a small black mole just below the right ear.

‘Good Lord, Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘Mrs Hare said her daughter had a mole in just that position!’

‘Exactly,’ Holmes said grimly. ‘I fear, Watson, that we have
found Rosie Hare but too late to save her. As Mrs Hare will have to be sent for to identify her, I shall have to tell Lestrade a little about our inquiries. But leave that to me. I shall say nothing at this stage about the Duckhams nor the Honourable Mrs Clyde-Bannister. Nor about my suspicions regarding the case.’

‘What suspicions, Holmes?’

‘Look at her hands, my dear fellow. Her mother last received a letter from her six months ago when she was engaged as a parlourmaid in the Duckhams’ house in Streatham. The question is, what has she been doing since that time? Not housework, that is certain. The hands are soft and white, the nails unblemished. Even if she had undertaken only the lightest of household duties, she could not have kept them in so perfect a condition. They are a lady’s hands; not a servant’s.’

‘Then what do you think she has been doing?’

‘I have my own theory which I shall explain to you when there is more time. At this moment, we must find Lestrade. But leave the explaining to me, there’s a good fellow.’

We ran Lestrade to earth in the duty-room, warming the backs of his legs before a huge coal fire.

He listened sombrely to Holmes’ explanation, which was a brief summary of the interview with Mrs Hare, and then, having dispatched a constable in a cab to fetch Mrs Hare from her address in Bow, he turned back to remark, ‘If I may say so, Mr Holmes, Mrs Hare doesn’t seem a likely client for someone with your reputation. I thought it was only the well-to-do and the famous who came looking for your services.’

He clearly suspected Holmes of holding back information although my old friend merely replied with a shrug, ‘I accept any client, Lestrade, rich or poor, as the mood takes me. I just happened to have time on my hands when Mrs Hare called at Baker Street. Unfortunately, my inquiries about her daughter had reached an impasse until this evening when you arrived to inform us of the suicide. I shall, of course, be willing to assist you in your own investigation, should you so wish, but at the moment I know no more about the facts of the case than you do.’

Strictly speaking, this was true. As Holmes had pointed out, he had only suspicions which it seemed he was unprepared to confide even to me.

I prefer not to dwell on the arrival of Mrs Hare and the distressing scene which followed her identification of the body as that of her daughter. It is painful to recall and all of us, Lestrade included, were in a subdued mood when she departed, accompanied by a police constable who had orders to see that she was placed in the care of a woman neighbour.

To my surprise, when Holmes and I left, I assumed to return to his lodgings, Holmes instructed the cab-driver to take us to the Burlington Hotel, Piccadilly, not to Baker Street, although he refused to explain the purpose behind this unexpected visit.

When the cab halted outside the hotel, Holmes alighted, telling me to wait as he would be only a few minutes.

From inside the hansom, I watched him go up the steps but, instead of entering, he remained on the portico, deep in conversation with the uniformed doorman. Then, having given the man a coin, Holmes climbed back into the cab.

‘What was all that about, Holmes?’ I asked, as the cab started off again, this time for Baker Street.

‘I was merely confirming my suspicions,’ said he, ‘and opening up a new avenue of inquiry which we shall explore together, my dear Watson. Be good enough to call at Baker Street at nine p.m. tomorrow, wearing evening dress.’

‘Evening dress?’ I exclaimed, quite taken aback by this request.

‘Yes; evening dress, Watson; white tie, tails, silk hat. I assume you have the necessary attire?’

‘Of course I do. I was merely questioning the need for it. Where are we going? To the theatre? Or to dine somewhere in the West End?’

But all Holmes would say in reply was, ‘Wait and see, Watson,’ before adroitly changing the subject by remarking, ‘By the way, speaking of the theatre, I hear there is a very good play on at the moment at the Adelphi.’

Nor would he discuss his plans when we arrived back at
Baker Street and, when I left that evening to return home, I was no wiser than I had been before.

It was in a state of considerable curiosity that I returned to Holmes’ lodgings the following evening at nine o’clock, dressed, as he had stipulated, in evening wear, to find him similarly attired, his silk hat and silver-knobbed cane lying ready on the table.

‘Excellent apart from the final touch,’ he said, placing a gardenia in my buttonhole. ‘You now look the perfect man-about-town, ready for a little diversion in what I believe the French call a
maison
de
tolérance.
Or in good, plain English, Watson, a brothel.’

‘Now look here, Holmes!’ I protested. ‘I am a respectable widower
*
and doctor. I cannot possibly accompany you to one of those places. Supposing I were recognised?’

‘I thought you might object so this morning I took the precaution of purchasing two simple but effective pieces of disguise – a pair of side-whiskers for you, my dear old friend, and a rather splendid waxed moustache for myself. The gum arabic is on the table. The looking glass is above the mantelshelf. As we glue our facial adornments into place, I shall explain why our inquiries will take us to a certain West End bordello. You remember I remarked on Rosie Hare’s hands and posed the question of what she had been doing in the six months since she last wrote to her mother? There seemed to me to be only one profession open to a girl of Rosie’s background which enabled her to lead a life of leisure. Her clothes, which were fashionable and expensive, also bore out that impression.’

He broke off at this point to help me fix my side-whiskers into place and to examine both our reflections in the glass with a critical eye before continuing, ‘You will also recall that I spoke to the doorman at the Burlington Hotel?’