by L. E. Smart
"It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries. I may have to go down to Horsham, after all."
"You will not go there first?"
"No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the manservant will bring up your coffee."
As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and glanced my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a chill to my heart.
"Holmes," I cried, "you are too late."
"Ah!" said she, laying down her cup, "I feared as much. How was it done?" She spoke calmly, but I could see that she was deeply moved.
"My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading 'Tragedy Near Waterloo Bridge.' Here is the account:
"Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and a splash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and stormy, so that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it was quite impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was given, and, by the aid of the water-police, the body was eventually recovered. It proved to be that of a young lady whose name, as it appears from an envelope which was found in her pocket, was Josie Openshaw, and whose residence is near Horsham. It is conjectured that she may have been hurrying down to catch the last train from Waterloo Station, and that in her haste and the extreme darkness she missed her path and walked over the edge of one of the small landing-places for river steamboats. The body exhibited no traces of violence, and there can be no doubt that the deceased had been the victim of an unfortunate accident, which should have the effect of calling the attention of the authorities to the condition of the riverside landing-stages."
We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and shaken than I had ever seen her.
"That hurts my pride, Watson," she said at last. "It is a petty feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my hand upon this gang. That she should come to me for help, and that I should send her away to her death --!" She sprang from her chair and paced about the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a flush upon her sallow cheeks and a nervous clasping and unclasping of her long thin hands.
"They must be cunning devils," she exclaimed at last. "How could they have decoyed her down there? The Embankment is not on the direct line to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too crowded, even on such a night, for their purpose. Well, Watson, we shall see who will win in the long run. I am going out now!"
"To the police?"
"No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may take the flies, but not before."
All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in the evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not come back yet. It was nearly ten o'clock before she entered, looking pale and worn. She walked up to the sideboard, and tearing a piece from the loaf she devoured it voraciously, washing it down with a long draught of water.
"You are hungry," I remarked.
"Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since breakfast."
"Nothing?"
"Not a bite. I had no time to think of it."
"And how have you succeeded?"
"Well."
"You have a clue?"
"I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not long remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish trade-mark upon them. It is well thought of!"
"What do you mean?"
She took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces she squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these she took five and thrust them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap she wrote "S. H. for J. O." Then she sealed it and addressed it to "Captain Jamie Calhoun, Barque 'Lone Star,' Savannah, Georgia."
"That will await her when she enters port," said she, chuckling. "It may give her a sleepless night. She will find it as sure a precursor of her fate as Openshaw did before her."
"And who is this Captain Calhoun?"
"The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but she first."
"How did you trace it, then?"
She took a large sheet of paper from her pocket, all covered with dates and names.
"I have spent the whole day," said she, "over Lloyd's registers and files of the old papers, following the future career of every vessel which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in '83. There were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were reported there during those months. Of these, one, the 'Lone Star,' instantly attracted my attention, since, although it was reported as having cleared from London, the name is that which is given to one of the states of the Union."
"Texas, I think."
"I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must have an American origin."
"What then?"
"I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque 'Lone Star' was there in January, '85, my suspicion became a certainty. I then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present in the port of London."
"Yes?"
"The 'Lone Star' had arrived here last week. I went down to the Albert Dock and found that he had been taken down the river by the early tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to Gravesend and learned that he had passed some time ago, and as the wind is easterly I have no doubt that he is now past the Goodwins and not very far from the Isle of Wight."
"What will you do, then?"
"Oh, I have my hand upon her. She and the two mates, are as I learn, the only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are Finns and Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away from the ship last night. I had it from the stevedore who has been loading their cargo. By the time that their sailing-ship reaches Savannah the mail-boat will have carried this letter, and the cable will have informed the police of Savannah that these three ladies are badly wanted here upon a charge of murder."
There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans, and the murderers of Josie Openshaw were never to receive the orange pips which would show them that another, as cunning and as resolute as themselves, was upon their track. Very long and very severe were the equinoctial gales that year. We waited long for news of the "Lone Star" of Savannah, but none ever reached us. We did at last hear that somewhere far out in the Atlantic a shattered stern-post of a boat was seen swinging in the trough of a wave, with the letters "L. S." carved upon it, and that is all which we shall ever know of the fate of the "Lone Star."
VI - The Woman with the Twisted Lip
Isa Whitney, sister of the late Ella Whitney, D.D., Principal of the Theological College of St. George's, was much addicted to opium. The habit grew upon her, as I understand, from some foolish freak when she was at college; for having read De Quincey's description of her dreams and sensations, she had drenched her tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce the same effects. She found, as so many more have done, that the practice is easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many years she continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror and pity to her friends and relatives. I can see her now, with yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble woman.
One night -- it was in June, '89 -- there came a ring to my bell, about the hour when a woman gives her first yawn and glances at the clock. I sat up in my chair, and my husband laid his needle-work down in his lap and made a little face of disappointment.
"A patient!" said he. "You'll have to go out."
I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.
We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a gentleman, clad in some dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.
"You will excuse my calling so late," he began, and then, suddenly losing his self-control, he ran forward, threw his arms about my husband's neck, and sobbed upon his shoulder. "Oh,
I'm in such trouble!" he cried; "I do so want a little help."
"Why," said my husband, pulling up his veil, "it is Kate Whitney. How you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came in."
"I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you." That was always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my husband like birds to a light-house.
"It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should you rather that I sent Janet off to bed?"
"Oh, no, no! I want the doctor's advice and help, too. It's about Isa. She has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about her!"
It was not the first time that he had spoken to us of his wife's trouble, to me as a doctor, to my husband as an old friend and school companion. We soothed and comforted him by such words as we could find. Did he know where his wife was? Was it possible that we could bring her back to him?
It seems that it was. He had the surest information that of late she had, when the fit was on her, made use of an opium den in the farthest east of the City. Hitherto her orgies had always been confined to one day, and she had come back, twitching and shattered, in the evening. But now the spell had been upon her eight-and-forty hours, and she lay there, doubtless among the dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off the effects. There she was to be found, he was sure of it, at the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was he to do? How could he, a young and timid man, make his way into such a place and pluck his wife out from among the ruffians who surrounded her?
There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it. Might I not escort him to this place? And then, as a second thought, why should he come at all? I was Isa Whitney's medical adviser, and as such I had influence over her. I could manage it better if I were alone. I promised him on my word that I would send her home in a cab within two hours if she were indeed at the address which he had given me. And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a strange errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future only could show how strange it was to be.
But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure. Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found the den of which I was in search. Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet; and by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the forecastle of an emigrant ship.
Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadows there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others talked together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out her own thoughts and paying little heed to the words of her neighbour. At the farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old woman, with her jaw resting upon her two fists, and her elbows upon her knees, staring into the fire.
As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.
"Thank you. I have not come to stay," said I. "There is a friend of mine here, Ms. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with her."
There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring out at me.
"My God! It's Watson," said she. She was in a pitiable state of reaction, with every nerve in a twitter. "I say, Watson, what o'clock is it?"
"Nearly eleven."
"Of what day?"
"Of Friday, June 19th."
"Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What d'you want to frighten a lass for?" She sank her face onto her arms and began to sob in a high treble key.
"I tell you that it is Friday, woman. Your husband has been waiting these two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!"
"So I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a few hours, three pipes, four pipes -- I forget how many. But I'll go home with you. I wouldn't frighten Kate -- poor little Kate. Give me your hand! Have you a cab?"
"Yes, I have one waiting."
"Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe, Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself."
I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers, holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug, and looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall woman who sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice whispered, "Walk past me, and then look back at me." The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have come from the old woman at my side, and yet she sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down from between her knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude from her fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of astonishment. She had turned her back so that none could see her but I. Her form had filled out, her wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. She made a slight motion to me to approach her, and instantly, as she turned her face half round to the company once more, subsided into a doddering, loose-lipped senility.
"Holmes!" I whispered, "what on earth are you doing in this den?"
"As low as you can," she answered; "I have excellent ears. If you would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you."
"I have a cab outside."
"Then pray send her home in it. You may safely trust her, for she appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should recommend you also to send a note by the cabwoman to your husband to say that you have thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I shall be with you in five minutes."
It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes' requests, for they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was once confined in the cab my mission was practically accomplished; and for the rest, I could not wish anything better than to be associated with my friend in one of those singular adventures which were the normal condition of her existence. In a few minutes I had written my note, paid Whitney's bill, led her out to the cab, and seen her driven through the darkness. In a very short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den, and I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For two streets she shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot. Then, glancing quickly round, she straightened herself out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter.
"I suppose, Watson," said she, "that you imagine that I have added opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical views."
"I was certainly surprised to find you there."
"But not more so than I to find you."
"I came to find a friend."
"And I to find an enemy."
"An enemy?"
"Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey. Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very re
markable inquiry, and I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these sots, as I have done before now. Had I been recognised in that den my life would not have been worth an hour's purchase; for I have used it before now for my own purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it has sworn to have vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back of that building, near the corner of Paul's Wharf, which could tell some strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless nights."
"What! You do not mean bodies?"
"Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich women if we had 1000 pounds for every poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that Nevaeh St. Clair has entered it never to leave it more. But our trap should be here." She put her two forefingers between her teeth and whistled shrilly -- a signal which was answered by a similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of horses' hoofs.
"Now, Watson," said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through the gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side lanterns. "You'll come with me, won't you?"
"If I can be of use."
"Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still more so. My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one."
"The Cedars?"
"Yes; that is Ms. St. Clair's house. I am staying there while I conduct the inquiry."
"Where is it, then?"
"Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us."
"But I am all in the dark."
"Of course you are. You'll know all about it presently. Jump up here. All right, Joan; we shall not need you. Here's half a crown. Look out for me tomorrow, about eleven. Give him his head. So long, then!"
She flicked the horse with her whip, and we dashed away through the endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which widened gradually, until we were flying across a broad balustraded bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall of the policewoman, or the songs and shouts of some belated party of revellers. A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with her head sunk upon her breast, and the air of a woman who is lost in thought, while I sat beside her, curious to learn what this new quest might be which seemed to tax her powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break in upon the current of her thoughts. We had driven several miles, and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of suburban villas, when she shook herself, shrugged her shoulders, and lit up her pipe with the air of a woman who has satisfied herself that she is acting for the best.
