Sherlock's Sisters

by Nick Rennison

  I think I must have fainted away then. I cannot describe the dreadful calmness with which that woman told this – that woman with the good face, whom I had last heard praying like a saint in meeting. I believe in demoniacal possession after this.

  When I came to, the neighbours were around me, putting camphor on my head, and saying soothing things to me, and the old friendly faces had returned. But I wish I could forget!

  They have taken Phoebe Dole away – I only know that. I cannot bear to talk any more about it when I think there must be a trial, and I must go!

  Henry has been over this evening. I suppose we shall be happy after all, when I have had a little time to get over this. He says I have nothing more to worry about. Mr Dix has gone home. I hope Henry and I may be able to repay his kindness some day.

  * * * * * *

  A month later. I have just heard that Phoebe Dole has died in prison. This is my last entry. May God help all other innocent women in hard straights as He has helped me!

  HAGAR THE GYPSY

  Created by Fergus Hume (1859-1932)

  Fergus Hume was the author of the most popular crime novel of the Victorian era. The Mystery of a Hansom Cab, was set in Melbourne, Australia, where it was first published (by Hume himself) in 1886. The following year it was published in London and became a huge success, far outselling A Study in Scarlet, Conan Doyle’s first Sherlock Holmes novel, which also appeared in 1887. Sadly for him, Hume had sold the English rights in his novel for a mere £50. After moving to England from Australia, he continued to write fiction for the rest of his life, publishing more than 120 novels and volumes of short stories over the next forty-five years, although none of them achieved anything like the sales of his debut. One of these books was the 1898 collection Hagar of the Pawn-Shop. Hagar is a Romany woman who inherits a Lambeth pawn-shop and is drawn into the lives of her customers. She finds that many of them need her problem-solving talents to right wrongs done to them or throw light on mysterious crimes. Lively and resourceful, Hagar is one of the most interesting female detectives of the era. In 1898, and for many decades to come, it was very unusual for a Romany or Gypsy character to appear in popular fiction as anything other than either a vagabond of doubtful morals or a downright villain. By contrast, Hagar is not only attractive and quick-witted, she also possesses a strict sense of duty and a determination to act honestly at all times. The tales in which she appears are some of the most distinctive crime stories of the 1890s.

  THE FIFTH CUSTOMER AND THE COPPER KEY

  The several adventures in which she had been engaged begot in Hagar a thirst for the romantic. To find that strange stories were attached to many pawned articles; to ascertain such histories of the past; to follow up their conclusions in the future – these things greatly pleased the girl, and gave her an interest in a somewhat dull life. She began to perceive that there was more romance in modern times than latter-day sceptics are willing to admit. Tropical scenery, ancient inns, ruined castles, are not necessary to engender romance. It is of the human heart, of human life; and even in the dingy Lambeth pawn-shop it blossomed and bloomed like some rare flower thrusting itself upward betwixt the arid city stones. Romance came daily to the gipsy girl, even in her prosaic business existence.

  Out of a giant tooth, an unburied bone, a mighty footprint, Cuvier could construct a marvellous and prehistoric world. In like manner, from some trifle upon which she lent money, Hagar would deduce tales as fantastic as the Arabian Nights, as adventurous as the story of Gil Blas. Of such sort was the romance brought about by the pawning of the copper key.

  The man who pawned it was in appearance like some Eastern mage; and the key itself, with its curious workmanship, green with verdigris, might have served to unlock the tower of Don Roderick. Its owner entered the shop one morning shortly before noon, and at the sight of his wrinkled face, and the venerable white beard which swept his breast, Hagar felt that he was a customer out of the common. With a gruff salutation, he threw down a paper parcel, which clanged on the counter.

  ‘Look at that,’ said he, sharply. ‘I wish to pawn it.’

  In no wise disturbed by his discourtesy, Hagar opened the package, and found therein a roll of linen; this, when unwound, revealed a slender copper key of no great size. The wards at the lower end were nearly level with the stem of the key itself, as they consisted merely of five or six prickles of copper encircling at irregular intervals the round stem. The handle, however, was ornate and curious, being shaped like a bishop’s crozier, while within the crook of the pastoral staff design the letters ‘CR’ were interwoven in an elaborate monogram. Altogether, this key – apparently very ancient – was a beautiful piece of workmanship, but of no value save to a dealer in rarities. Hagar examined it carefully, shook her head, and tossed it on the counter.

  ‘I wouldn’t give you five shillings on it,’ said she, contemptuously; ‘it is worth nothing.’

  ‘Bah, girl! You do not know what you are talking about. Look at the workmanship.’

  ‘Very fine, no doubt; but –’

  ‘And the monogram, you blind bat!’ interrupted the old man. ‘“CR” – that stands for Carolus Rex.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Hagar, picking up the key again, and taking it to the light of the window; ‘it is an historic key, then?’

  ‘Yes. It is said to be the key of the box in which the First Charles kept the treasonous papers which ultimately cost him his head. Oh, you may look! The key is authentic enough. It has been in the Danetree family for close on two hundred and fifty years.’

  ‘And are you a Danetree?’

  ‘No; I am Luke Parsons, the steward of the family.’

  ‘Indeed!’ said Hagar, with a piercing glance. ‘Then how comes the key into your possession?’

  ‘I don’t recognise your right to ask such questions,’ said Parsons, in an angry tone. ‘The key came into my possession honestly.’

  ‘Very probably; but I should like to know how. Do not get in a rage, Mr Parsons,’ added Hagar, hastily; ‘we pawnbrokers have to be very particular, you know.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ snapped the customer; ‘but if your curiosity must be satisfied, the key came to me from my father Mark, a former steward of the Danetrees. It was given to him by the then head of the family some sixty years ago.’

  ‘What are all these figures graven on the stem?’ asked Hagar, noting a number of hieroglyphic marks.

  ‘Ordinary Arabic numerals,’ retorted Parsons. ‘What they mean I know no more than you do. If I did I should be rich,’ he added, to himself.

  ‘Ah! there is some secret connected with these figures?’ said Hagar, overhearing.

  ‘If there is, you won’t find it out,’ replied the old man, ungraciously; ‘and it is none of your business, anyhow! What you have to do is to lend money on the key.’

  Hagar hesitated. The article, notwithstanding its workmanship, its age, and its historical associations, was worth very little. Had its interest consisted of these merely, she would not have taken the key in pawn. But the row of mysterious figures decided her. Here was a secret, connected – as was probable from the remark of the old man – with a hidden treasure. Remembering her experience with the cryptogram of the Florentine Dante, Hagar determined to retain the key, and, if possible, to discover the secret.

  ‘If you are really in want of money, I will let you have a pound on it,’ she said, casting a glance at the threadbare clothes of her customer.

  ‘If I did not need money, I should not have blundered into your spider’s web,’ he retorted. ‘A pound will do; make out the ticket in the name of Luke Parsons, The Lodge, Danetree Hall, Buckton, Kent.’

  In silence Hagar did as she was bid; in silence she gave him ticket and money; and in silence he walked out of the shop. When alone she took up the key, and began to examine the figures without loss of time. The learning of many secrets had created in her a burning d
esire to learn more. If ingenuity and perseverance could do it, Hagar was bent upon discovering the secret of the copper key.

  This mysterious object was so covered with verdigris that she was unable to decipher the marks. With her usual promptness, Hagar got the necessary materials, and cleaned the key thoroughly. The figures – those, as Parsons had said, of Arabic numerals – then appeared clearer, and Hagar noted that they extended the whole length of the copper stem. Taking paper and pencil, she copied them out carefully, with the following result:

  ‘20211814115251256205255 – H – 38518212.’

  ‘An odd jumble of figures!’ said Hagar, staring at the result of her labours. ‘I wonder what they mean.’

  Unversed in the science of unravelling cryptograms, she was unable to answer her own question; and after an hour of profitless investigation, which made her head ache, she numbered the key according to the numeral of the ticket, and put it away. But the oddity of the affair, the strange circumstance of the figures with the letter ‘H’ stranded among them, often made her reflective, and she was devoured by curiosity – that parent of all great discoveries – to know what key and figures meant. Nevertheless, for all her thought no explanation of the problem presented itself. To her the secret of the key was the secret of the Sphinx – as mysterious, as unguessable.

  Then it occurred to her that there might be some story, or legend, or tradition attached to this queer key, which might throw some light on the mystery of the figures. If she learnt the story, it was not improbable that she might gain a hint therefrom. At all events, Parsons had spoken of concealed riches connected with the reading of the cypher. To attempt to unravel the problem without knowing the reason for which the figures were engraved was, vulgarly speaking, putting the cart before the horse. Hagar determined that the cart should be in its proper place, viz., at the tail of the animal. In other words, she resolved first to learn the legend of the key, and afterwards attempt a reading of the riddle. To get at the truth, it was necessary to see Parsons.

  No sooner had Hagar made up her mind to this course than she resolved to carry out her plan. Leaving Bolker to mind the shop, she went off down to Kent – to the Lodge, Buckton, that address which Parsons had given to be written on the ticket. With her she took the key, in case it might be wanted, and shortly after midday she alighted at a little rural station.

  Oh, it was sweet to be once more in the country, to wander through green lanes o’er-arched with bending hazels, to smell the perfume of Kentish orchards, to run across the springy turf of wide moors golden with gorse! Such a fair expanse was stretched out at the back of the station, and across it – as Hagar was informed by an obliging porter – Danetree Hall was to be found. At the gates thereof, in a pretty and quaint lodge, dwelt surly Mr Parsons, and thither went Hagar; but in truth she almost forgot her errand in the delights of the country.

  Her gipsy blood sang in her veins as she ran across the green sward, and her heart leaped in her bosom for very lightness. She forgot the weary Lambeth pawn-shop; she thought not of Eustace Lorn; she did not let her mind dwell upon the return of Goliath and her subsequent disinheritance; all she knew was that she was a Romany lass, a child of the road, and had entered again into her kingdom. In such a happy vein she saw the red roofs of Danetree Hall rising above the trees of a great park; and almost immediately she arrived at the great iron gates, behind which, on one side of a stately avenue, she espied the lodge wherein dwelt Parsons.

  He was sitting outside smoking a pipe, morose even in the golden sunlight, with the scent of flowers in his nostrils, the music of the birds in his ears. On seeing Hagar peering between the bars of the gate he started up, and literally rushed towards her.

  ‘Pawn-shop girl!’ he growled, like an angry bear. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Civility in the first place; rest in the second!’ retorted Hagar, coolly. ‘Let me in, Mr Parsons. I have come to see you about that copper key.’

  ‘You’ve lost it?’ shouted the gruff creature.

  ‘Not I; it’s in my pocket. But I wish to know its story.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Parsons, opening the gates with manifest reluctance.

  Without replying Hagar marched past him, into his garden, and the porch of his house. Finally she took her seat in the chair Parsons had vacated. The old man seemed rather pleased with her ungracious behaviour, which matched so well with his own; and after closing the gates he came to stare at her brilliant face.

  ‘You’re a handsome woman, and a bold one,’ said he, slowly. ‘Come inside, and tell me why you wish to know the story of the key.’

  Accepting the invitation with civility, Hagar followed her eccentric host into a prim little parlour furnished in the ugly fashion of the early Victorian era. Chairs and sofa were of mahogany and horsehair; a round table, with gilt-edged books lying thereon at regular intervals, occupied the centre of the apartment, and the gilt-framed mirror over the fireplace was swathed in green gauze. Copperplate prints of the Queen and the Prince Consort decorated the crudely-papered walls, and the well-worn carpet was of a dark-green hue sprinkled with bouquets of red flowers. Altogether a painfully ugly room, which made anyone gifted with artistic aspirations shudder. Hagar, whose eye was trained to beauty, shuddered duly, and then took her seat on the most comfortable of the ugly chairs.

  ‘Why do you want to know the story of the key?’ asked Parsons, throwing his bulky figure on the slippery sofa.

  ‘Because I wish to read the riddle of the key.’

  Parsons started up, and his face grew red with anger. ‘No, no! You shall not – you must not! Never will I make her rich!’

  ‘Make who rich?’ asked Hagar, astonished at this outburst.

  ‘Marion Danetree – the proud hussy! My son loves her, but she disdains him. He is breaking his heart, while she laughs. If that picture were found she would be rich, and despise my poor Frank the more.’

  ‘The picture? What picture?’

  ‘Why, the one that is hidden,’ said Parsons in surprise. ‘The clue to the hiding-place is said to be concealed in the figures on the key. If you find the picture, it will sell for thirty thousand pounds, which would go to that cruel Miss Danetree.’

  ‘I don’t quite understand,’ said Hagar, rather bewildered. ‘Would you mind telling me the story from the beginning?’

  ‘As you please,’ replied the old man, moodily. ‘I’ll make it as short as I can. Squire Danetree, the grandfather of the present lady, who is the only representative of the family, was very rich, and a friend of George the Fourth. Like all the Danetrees, he was a scamp, and squandered the property of the family in entertainments during the Regency. He sold all the pictures of the Hall save one, The Nativity, by Andrea del Castagno, a famous Florentine painter of the Renaissance. The King offered thirty thousand pounds for this gem, as he wished to buy it for the nation. Danetree refused, as he had some compunction at robbing his only son, and wished to leave him the picture as the only thing saved out of the wreck. But as time went on, and money became scarce, he determined to sell this last valuable. Then the picture disappeared.’

  ‘How did it disappear?’

  ‘My father hid it,’ replied Parsons, coolly. ‘It was not known at the time, but the old man confessed on his death-bed that, determined to save the family from ruin, he had concealed the picture while Squire Danetree was indulging in his mad orgies in London. When my father confessed, the spendthrift squire was dead, and he wished the son – the present Miss Danetree’s father – to possess the picture and to sell it, in order to restore the fortunes of the family.’

  ‘Well, did he not tell where the picture was hidden?’

  ‘No; he died on the point of revealing the secret,’ said Parsons. ‘All he could say was “The key! the key!” Then I knew that the hiding-place was indicated by the row of figures graven on the stem of the copper key. I tried to make out the meaning; so did my son; so
did Squire Danetree and his daughter. But all to no purpose. None can read the riddle.’

  ‘But why did you pawn the key?’

  ‘It wasn’t for money, you may be sure of that!’ snapped the old man – ‘or I should not have taken a paltry pound for it. No, I pawned it to put it beyond my son’s reach. He was always poring over it, so I thought he might guess the meaning and find the picture.’

  ‘And why not? Don’t you want it found?’

  Parsons’s face assumed a malignant expression. ‘No!’ said he, sharply – ‘for then Frank would be foolish enough to give the picture to Miss Danetree – to the woman who despises him. If you guess the riddle, don’t tell him, as I don’t want to make the proud jade rich.’

  ‘I can’t guess the riddle,’ replied Hagar hopelessly. ‘Your story does not aid me in the least.’

  While thus speaking, her eyes wandered to the wall at the back of the glum old steward. Thereon she saw in a frame of black wood one of those hideous samplers which our grandmothers were so fond of working. It was a yellow square, embroidered – or rather stitched – with the alphabet in diverse colours, and also an array of numerals up to twenty-six. Hagar idly wondered why the worker had stopped at that particular number; and then she noticed that the row of figures was placed directly under the row of letters. At once the means of reading the key riddle flashed on her brain. The cypher was exceedingly simple. All that had to be done was to substitute letters for the figures. Hagar uttered an ejaculation which roused old Parsons from his musings.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said he, turning his head: ‘what are you looking at, girl? Oh,’ he added, following her gaze, ‘that sampler; ’twas done by my mother; a rare hand at needlework she was! But never mind her just now. I want to know about that riddle.’

  ‘I can’t guess it,’ said Hagar, keeping her own counsel, for reasons to be revealed hereafter. ‘Do you wish your key back? I have it here.’