Watson, well used to Holmes’s eccentric ways, resolutely ignored him, content to occupy his time by idly observing the passing scene. The captain and waiters, on the other hand, could not ignore him: An untidy pile of discarded newspapers was piling up at his feet, and they were in somewhat of a quandary over what to do about it. Holmes, of course, was totally oblivious to it all.
“It would seem,” he said finally, laying aside the last of the journals with a final grunt of annoyance as their coffee was served — “It would seem that our friends at Scotland Yard have their work cut out for them.”
“Oh?” responded Watson with an air of disinterest. “What are they up to now?”
Holmes looked at him quizzically from across the table, an amused smile on his thin lips. “Murder! Murder most foul! Really, Watson! Surely you are not so completely unobservant that you failed to take note of the cries of the news vendors as we left the theater. The street is fairly ringing with their voices! ‘Orrible murder in Whitechapel,’” he mimicked. “‘Sco’ln’ Yard w’out a clue.’”
Watson made a face. “Well, I hadn’t noticed, actually. But surely, Holmes, neither bit of information is hardly unusual. There must be a dozen murders in that section of the city every week, and few if any are ever solved: You above all people must be aware of that. What makes this one any different?”
“If the popular press are to be believed —” He broke off in midsentence and laughed. “What a silly premise to go on, eh? Still, if there is even a shred of truth to their rather lurid accounts, this particular murder contains features that are not entirely devoid of interest. But what intrigues me more, Watson — what intrigues me infinitely more at the moment — is your astounding ability to filter from your mind even the most obvious and urgent of external stimuli. It’s almost as if you have an insulating wall around you, a magical glass curtain through which you can be seen and heard but out of which you cannot see or hear! Is this a talent you were born with, old chap, or have you cultivated it over the years? Trained yourself through arduous study and painstaking application?”
“Really, Holmes, you exaggerate,” Watson replied defensively. He was both hurt by Holmes’s sarcastic rebuke and just a little annoyed.
“Do I? Do I indeed? Well, let us try a little test, shall we? Take, for example, the couple sitting at the table to my left and slightly behind me. You’ve been eyeing the young lady avidly enough during our meal. I deduce that it is the low cut of her gown that interests you, for her facial beauty is of the kind that comes mostly from the paint pot and is not of the good, simple English variety that usually attracts your attention. What can you tell me about the couple in general?”
Watson glanced over Holmes’s shoulder. “Oh, that pretty little thing with the auburn hair — the one with the stoutish, balding chap, eh?”
“Yaas,” Holmes drawled, the single word heavy with sarcasm. He examined his fingernails. “The wealthy American couple, just come over from Paris on the boat-train without their servants. He’s in railroads, in the western regions of the United States, I believe, but has spent no little time in England. They are waiting — he, rather impatiently, anxiously — for a third party to join them, a business acquaintance, no doubt — one who is beneath their station but of no small importance to them in any event.”
Watson put down his cup with a clatter. “Really, Holmes! Really!” he sputtered. “There is no possible way you could know all that. Not even you! This time you have gone too far.”
“Have I indeed? Your problem, dear chap, as I have had occasion to remind you, is that you see but do not observe; you hear but do not listen. For a literary man, Watson — and note that I do not comment on the merit of your latest account of my little problems — for a man with the pretenses of being a writer, you are singularly unobservant. Honestly, sometimes I am close to despair.”
He removed a cigarette from his case with a flourish and paused for the waiter to light it, a mischievous glint in his eye.
Watson gave him a sidelong look. “Very well, Holmes, I will nibble at your lure. Pray explain yourself!”
Holmes threw back his head and laughed. “But it is so very simple. As I have told you often enough, one has only to take note of the basic facts. For example, a mere glance will tell you that this particular couple is not only wealthy, but extremely wealthy. Their haughty demeanor, the quality of their clothes, the young lady’s jewelry, and the gentleman’s rather large diamond ring on the little finger of his left hand would suffice to tell you that. The ring also identifies our man as American: A ‘pinky ring,’ I believe it is called. What Englishman of breeding would ever think of wearing one of those?”
Holmes drew on his cigarette and continued, the exhalation of smoke intermingling with his dissertation. “That they are recently come from Paris is equally apparent: The lady is wearing the very latest in Parisian fashion — the low decolletage is, I believe, as decidedly French as it is delightfully revealing — and the fabric of the gown is obviously quite new, stiff with newness, probably never worn before. That they arrived this very evening is not terribly difficult to ascertain. Their clothes are somewhat creased, you see. Fresh out of the steamer trunk. Obviously, their appointment at Simpson’s is of an urgent nature, otherwise they would have taken the time to have the hotel valet remove the creases before changing into the garments. That they are traveling without personal servants can be deduced by the simple fact that the gentleman’s sleeve links, while similar, are mismatched, and the lady’s hair, while freshly brushed, is not so carefully coiffed as one might expect it to be. No self-respecting manservant or lady’s maid would permit their master or mistress to go out of an evening in such a state, not if they value their positions and take pride in their calling.”
Watson sighed, a resigned expression on his face. He smoothed his mustache with his hand, a gesture of exasperation. “And the rest? How did you deduce all of that, dare I ask?”
“Oh, no great mystery, really. The man’s suit of clothes is obviously Savile Row from the cut; custom made from good English cloth. It is not new. Ergo, he has visited our blessed plot before, at least once and for a long enough stay to have at least one suit, probably three or four, made to measure.”
“Three or four? You know that with certainty, do you?”
Holmes, who was fastidious in his dress and surprisingly fashion conscious, and the possessor of an extensive wardrobe now that his success permitted it, allowed a slightly patronizing tone to color his reply.
“Formal attire would usually be a last selection; an everyday frock coat or ‘Prince Albert’ and more casual garments for traveling and for weekend country wear would customarily be the first, second, and third choices.”
Watson looked pained, but he bravely, perhaps foolishly, continued: “You said he was a railroad man. How do you come by that, eh? And your conjecture that he is waiting for an urgent appointment, a business engagement, you said — and with someone beneath his station? How do you arrive at those conclusions?” He snorted. “Admit it, Holmes: pure guesswork, plain and simple!”
“You know me better than that,” Holmes said, casually dabbing at his lips with a napkin. “I never guess.” His lips puckered in a prim smile.
“Well then?” said Watson impatiently, drumming his fingers on the table.
“It is manifestly clear that the gentleman is waiting for another individual because of his repeated glances toward the door — anxious glances which suggest that the other party is not only eagerly awaited, but of no small importance to the gentleman in question. That it is one individual and not more is supported by the obvious fact (so obvious, Watson) that the gentleman and lady are seated at a table for four, and there is only one other place setting in evidence. These conclusions are all supported by the additional observations that the man and his charming companion — his wife, I dare say, from his inattentive manner — have yet to order from the menu despite being at table for some considerable time, and the wretched fell
ow is well into at least his third whiskey and soda — with ice, I might add,” he said with a slight curl to the lip, “further evidence he is an American, should any be needed.”
“As for the rest —” Holmes stubbed his cigarette out and continued: “That the man has a well-stuffed leather briefcase on the chair beside him suggests an engagement of a business nature. Why else would anyone bring such an encumbrance to a late evening supper? As for the engagement being with someone beneath his station...” Holmes sighed and gave Watson a somewhat patronizing look. “Really, Watson, this is getting tiresome. Obviously, our friends over there are wealthy enough to dine at the Ritz or the Cafe Monico. Why Simpson’s, as good as it is, with its simple English fare? Hardly what a wealthy American tourist or business magnate would choose unless he had good and sufficient reason to do so — such as not wishing to appear in a highly fashionable restaurant that caters to the crème of society with someone unsuitably dressed or of a lower station.”
Watson raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Enough, enough; I should have known better than to doubt you. You have my most abject apologies. Now, for God’s sake let us get the bill and find our way home. I am suddenly very weary and want only my bed.”
Holmes chuckled and snapped his fingers for the waiter.
As they threaded their way toward the entrance minutes later, Watson had to step to one side to avoid colliding with a man rushing headlong into the restaurant: a short, round individual with a large mustache, who after a hurried glance around the room made directly for the table occupied by the couple in question, profuse with apologies once having arrived. He was carrying a bulky briefcase and was dressed in a sagging dark business suit, not of the best cut or material. His voice, which could be clearly heard over the hubbub of the restaurant, had a decidedly middle-class accent — lower middle class. Watson shot Holmes a sidelong glance to see if he had noticed. He need not have bothered: Holmes’s face was a mask of perfect innocence. There was just the glimmer of a smile, the mere hint of a smile on his thin lips, nothing more.
“We have a visitor, Holmes,” said Watson as their hansom clattered to a halt in front of their lodgings. There was a light in their sitting room window, the shadow of a human form in evidence.
“I am not totally surprised,” said Holmes laconically.
“You were expecting someone at this late hour?”
“No, not really. Nor am I surprised someone is here. H-Division, in all likelihood.” Without a further word of explanation he bounded from the cab, his eyes bright with anticipation, leaving Watson to settle the fare and follow.
Two
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 1888
“It has always been my habit to hide none of my methods, either from my friend Watson or from anyone who might take an intelligent interest in them.”
— Sherlock Holmes, The Reigate Squires
Mrs. Hudson was waiting for them just inside the front vestibule by the staircase landing when they entered, but Holmes rushed past her with barely a nod, bounding up the stairs two at a time.
“Yes, yes, I know, Mrs. Hudson,” he called as he ran. “Thank you, thank you kindly. No time for how-d’ya-dos.”
Watson followed at a more leisurely pace. “A good evening to you, Mrs. Hudson. Apparently we have callers. How good of you to see to their comfort. Thank you so very much indeed.”
The long-suffering Mrs. Hudson, so used to their irregular ways and the odd callers Holmes received at even odder hours, shrugged in resignation and returned to her kitchen for her nightly glass of hot milk (laced with a circumspect spoonful of whiskey) before finally retiring, she fervently hoped, for the night.
Watson, upon reaching the top of the landing, found Holmes in the front room, their common parlor, with two men, one having just arisen from the settee where he had been seated, not terribly comfortably, with teacup in hand. The other, the heavier of the two and the better dressed, had been anxiously pacing in front of the window but was now by the door, shaking hands with Holmes. It was obvious what they were, if not who they were, for while their faces were new to Watson, intuitively he was able to identify them at once: the way in which they carried themselves, their aura of authority, if not to say officiousness, was to the practiced eye identity enough — as obvious signs of their profession as actual signs around their necks would be.
“Ah,” said Watson before Holmes had a chance to make the introductions. “H-Division, I presume.”
Holmes shot him an amused glance. “No, dear fellow: CID, as it happens.” He made a gesture of presentation. “My friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, gentlemen. Watson, this is Detective Inspector Abberline and Sergeant Thicke.”5
It was the higher-ranking Abberline (for his aura of authority was just that much more in evidence) who came forward to shake hands with Watson, while the other man, Thicke, was occupied juggling his teacup, desperately looking for a place to set it down.
Abberline was a soft-spoken, portly man with a high brow and heavy whiskers who looked and sounded more like a bank manager or solicitor than a policeman. He favored Watson with a quizzical look.
“Dr. Watson is not totally incorrect,” he said. “Both Thicke and I have been temporarily assigned to H-Division on an especial duty, the very matter that brings us to you at this late hour, in point of fact.”
“Please make yourself comfortable, gentlemen,” said Holmes. “I see our Mrs. Hudson has provided you tea. May I freshen your cups? No. Well then, help yourself to cigars if you like. You will find them in the coal scuttle by the fireplace there. I won’t tempt you with a brandy or whiskey, seeing as you are still on duty.”
With a flick of the tails of his coat, Holmes plopped himself down in his favorite chair and tented his hands in front of him. “Now, pray tell me how I might be of service.”
Abberline took the proffered chair and waved away the offer of tobacco while Thicke gratefully resumed his place on the settee, teacup still balanced precariously, and peered over toward the fireplace with a bemused expression, no doubt trying to fathom why any sane individual would want to keep his cigars in a coal scuttle.6
Abberline began speaking immediately: “Good of you to see us at this late hour, Mr. Holmes. Believe me, if it were not a matter of some urgency, I would not have troubled you. Lestrade assured me that not only would you not mind the intrusion, but, to the contrary, would receive us graciously, as I have indeed found to be the case.”
“Ah, my good friend Lestrade,” said Holmes with a faint smile and noncommittal tone, concealing his somewhat low opinion of the man’s professional skills.7
“Yes, it was he who suggested that I come to you. You are known to me by reputation, of course — the assistance you have rendered to the Yard in the past is well known to us all, as is the fact that your unofficial status and your — shall we say, um, unorthodox methods — can sometimes bring about more satisfactory results than we in an official capacity can achieve.”
Though scarcely effusive with praise, this was an astounding admission coming as it did from a professional police officer, and it was one that was obviously made with some difficulty. Holmes enjoyed every word of it, but his facial expression betrayed none of his feelings. While hardly a modest man, it would have been foreign to his nature to gloat, yet he was far too forthright to indulge in false humility. He merely nodded politely, then shot a warning glance at Watson, who seemed to be having difficulty containing himself.
Abberline cleared his throat and continued: “We have a most dreadful mess on our hands at the moment, Mr. Holmes, a horrible mess, and frankly I am at a loss as to how to deal with it. I don’t mind admitting to you that as things now stand, the matter would appear to be beyond the capabilities and resources of the Metropolitan Police.”
Watson could restrain himself no longer at this admission. “What refreshing candor from a Scotland Yard man,” he said, smiling broadly. “You are to be congratulated, Inspector. You fellows usually show great reticence in admitti
ng half as much.” He gave Holmes a wink. “Something to do with this Whitechapel business, I would wager.”
Abberline turned toward him in his chair, his expression a mixture of mild annoyance and surprise.
“Why, yes, Doctor, it is indeed the Whitechapel affair that brings us here. However did you guess?”
“Guess? Dear chap, I don’t guess. Just look at the two of you: Your boots and trouser bottoms are covered with mud — that distinctive brownish-blackish muck you will find only in the mean streets of the East End. A spattering of the stuff is even on the upper legs of your trousers and on your hats over there. You must have been crawling around in it half the night, noses to the ground, I shouldn’t wonder.” He snorted. “Obviously called out to investigate the murder of that poor woman, eh?”
Abberline and Thicke both peered at Watson with expressions bordering on admiration.
“Damn me, but that’s observant of you, Doctor!” Thicke exclaimed. “Your powers of observation are most impressive.”
Watson preened his mustache and stole a glance at Holmes. “Oh, elementary really. Nothing much to it when you have the knack.”
Holmes smiled ruefully and rendered Watson a little bow from his chair, then turned back to Abberline.
“Please continue, Inspector,” he said, his tone and look implying that he would appreciate the absence of further interruptions from Watson.
Abberline sat back, his face resuming its anxious expression. “Dr. Watson is, of course, correct. We have spent the better part of the day and evening in the Whitechapel district trying to come up with something — anything at all — that would give us a clue to this heinous crime. I tell you, Mr. Holmes, I have never come up against anything like this before. It’s the most horrible thing I have ever seen. Without doubt, the most horrible, vicious thing.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors Page 2
