by Mike Hogan
He took the whisky bottle from Wiggins and filled his glass.
“The nanny, as I found out later, had her suspicions. She went to the hut, found the girl dead and White clinging on to life. I tell you straight, sir, it would have been better for all if he had expired. She sent for a wise man and he nursed White back to health with evil charms, the devil.
“I outrode a warrant for my arrest, and sold enough gems at the Cape to secure a passage on a Yankee ship to Baltimore, and thence on to Milwaukee, where I made an attempt at going for a gentleman and making a life for Bobby. I kept his name, Robert White Taylor, as I thought it fitting, despite my partner’s cruelty and the murder of the girl.
“The rest I have told Doctor Watson. I brought the boy to England to give him a start as a gentleman. I discovered that it was not possible in America.”
“And?” said Holmes.
“I heard from friends at the Cape that I was inquired for; someone was on my tail. I thought it might be detectives chasing me for White’s killing and maybe for his woman’s. Then I received a letter in New York from a man that I had thought was long dead. It was postmarked from the Cape. He required me to return the boy that for half his young lifetime had been my son. I could not do that, and I defy you gentlemen to tell me to my face that I was wrong. It would have broken my heart, and put the boy in the power of evil. I took flight with Bobby to Wisconsin, thinking to outrun the fiend. I received another threat, this time mailed in New York. He was on my trail.”
“He is the boy’s father,” I said.
“And he killed his mother. He will murder me, and the boy, if does not get his way. He has already killed the Negro lad.”
“How do you know that?” asked Holmes.
“You told me. You have his description pat, plus seven or so years of ageing from when I knew him. Who the murdered man was, and what their relationship was, I do not know, but Rob White is your murderer, sure.”
“Has he made any attempt on you?” asked Holmes.
“No,” said Taylor. “He will wait until he has the boy in his power. Then my life will not be worth a bent nickel.”
“Why did the boy run?”
“He caught sight of a letter from White. He is a bright boy, sir. He realised that White must be his natural father. I was forced to tell what happened at the diggings.”
“Did he believe you?”
Taylor shrugged. “I don’t know. The servant, Long, poisoned him against me, so I gave him his notice. Bobby left with him a few days after.”
“Thank you, Mr Taylor,” said Holmes, standing. “We need take up no more of your time.”
He turned away as Taylor stood unsteadily and held out his hand.
I shook hands and guided him to the top of the stairs.
“Oh, Taylor,” said Holmes quietly. “Where were you wounded?”
Taylor stopped and touched his cheek with his hand.
“Natal.”
“The Zulu War?”
“No, just a bar fight. I am no soldier. Good night to all.”
He clattered down the steps and outside into Narrow Street.
“Well,” said Holmes. “Do we believe our Mr Taylor?”
He turned to Churchill.
“He is still not telling us everything, sir. What was that about the wound?”
“The whiskers almost hide the scar. A bullet wound in the neck and cheek. I would say that Taylor was shot from behind.”
“Perhaps by White,” said Churchill.
“Perhaps,” Holmes said.
“This White is a vile fellow,” I said. “How did you know that he is the boy’s natural father?”
“It is a matter of elementary genetics,” said Holmes. “Once you had met Taylor and confirmed his fox-red hair and green eyes, I made a calculation using the formula of Brother Mendel, the Augustinian monk, to determine the likelihood of a parental relationship with a blond, blue-eyed boy as described by Wiggins. I then determined the character differences between Taylor and his supposed son, and weighed Taylor’s frantic fear that White had the boy in his power. The middle initial was conclusive: Bobby is White’s son, not Taylor’s. White had the power to deprive Taylor of the boy by legal as well as illegal means. When you have eliminated the impossible -”
“I wonder -” I said overriding him. “I wonder that White has not been apprehended by the police,” I said. “The description is exact.”
Churchill and Wiggins indulged in a cheap form of wit at the expense of the London constabulary.
“Why then, you may laugh,” I countered stiffly. “But the Baker Street Irregulars have not covered themselves in glory.”
“You’re a sporting gent, Doctor.” Wiggins said quietly. “A fiver at evens will see what the Irregulars can achieve.”
“Done,” I said.
Churchill shook his head. “Oh, Doctor.”
“Money down, sir.” Wiggins pulled a thick wallet out of a breast pocket and laid a crisp, white five-pound note on the table.
“Watson -” Holmes began.
“No, no, Holmes. Let us see what your vaunted gang of young miscreants may do. I will venture a fiver that they will not find White before the authorities catch him. Inspector Lestrade may be trusted to get his man; he is dogged in pursuit.”
I slipped a five-pound note from my slim pocketbook. It was the last one left from that month’s pension after Wiggins’s earlier depredations. I laid it on the table.
“Mr White is in Room 34, St Pancras Hotel,” said Wiggins. “Checked in under the name of Wolff, Wilhelm Gunter. Thank you very much.” He scooped up the money and stood. “I gave the Doctor evens, as being your mate, Mr Holmes. With any other gent, I would have made it a tenner at three to one. I had the honour of the Irregulars to uphold.”
I sat back in my seat as the four-wheeler rattled through the empty streets.
“Did you replace the house numbers?” I asked.
“We did, Doctor,” said Churchill instantly. “And all in the right places too, with no larking about.”
“What now, Holmes?” I asked as we alighted at Baker Street.
“Sleep, Watson,” said Holmes. “We will see what tomorrow brings. Do not over-tip the driver. He has not brushed the benches in the cab this age.”
The Servant Cooped
“Good morning, Watson,” said Holmes the next morning. “I am glad to see that Mrs Hudson is on her feet again.”
I joined Holmes at our breakfast table.
“She is indeed,” I replied. “How did you guess?”
“No guesswork is involved, my dear sir. It was a matter of simple deduction: here is a perfect six-minute boiled egg, and these are faultless toast soldiers. Our breakfast is undoubtedly the work of our dear landlady. She is up and about.”
“She can hobble to the kitchen. Indeed, she insists on doing so.”
I leafed through The Daily Telegraph as I sipped my coffee. I will not say that I was in the best of humours, but Mrs Hudson’s excellent notion of breakfast: streaky bacon, sage-stuffed sausages, black pudding, eggs, and fresh roasted coffee, had returned me to a state in which I might be cajoled into a reasonable humour, given a quiet day with no surprises.
“I see that the Caspar case has disappeared from the front pages,” I said. “I expect both sides in the dispute were happy to let it fade from view. It will be a salutary lesson to that flighty class of females who think that they may venture forth unescorted to any part of London at any hour. It has scotched their plans, I fancy.”
“I would say, Watson that the effect of this case will be absolutely to the contrary. It will open the West End to women. It will fox every policeman in the metropolis to determine the women ‘on the game’ and those who are merely exercising their right to assemble freely at Piccadilly Circ
us and to chat merrily with passing strangers.”
“Monstrous,” I exclaimed.
“There is already a scheme to erect a public convenience for women in Oxford Street.”
I blinked in astonishment. “Good Lord. I trust that no public funds are involved.”
“From now on,” said Holmes, “any police officer who makes a mistaken arrest can expect to be pilloried as Endaby was pilloried. And the Southern Railway will have to run excursion steamers from Boulogne-Sur-Mer and special trains from the coast to accommodate the influx of French boulevardiers who will throng our streets looking for likely lasses.”
“Nonsense, Holmes, you mistake the virtuosity of our English maidens.”
I heard a faint knock at the door, and Churchill entered.
“Ah, our stormy petrel,” said Holmes. “Coffee?”
“Thank you, I have already breakfasted.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows.
“Twice, sir: once with Billy and once with Mrs Hudson. She is much improved.”
“How are your parents?” Holmes asked.
“Quite well, but still taken up with affairs. They are at Blenheim Palace. The Jubilee Ball is scheduled for tomorrow.”
I coughed and shook my head slightly, willing Holmes to catch my meaning.
“You did not join them,” said Holmes. “That was selfish and unpatriotic of you. I am surprised; you were coming along so well.”
Churchill blinked at him; I saw tears welling up and I drew in a breath to remonstrate with Holmes.
“Watson acquainted me with your exemplary extraction of Mrs Plum’s evidence,” Holmes said. “But just because you are showing such promise in the science of deduction does not mean that you can neglect your familial duties. Blood, in your case in particular, is blood. You must send a telegram expressing a wish that the dance is a success. Do not forget Her Majesty’s good health.”
Churchill beamed, and I sighed in relief.
“I have a job for you this morning, Spencer-Churchill,” Holmes continued. “I intend to make certain enquiries at the British Museum. I must assist the prosecution in the appalling Netherlands-Sumatra Company case in Brussels. I will ask you to stand by at the Reading Room, as I may have to send urgent and confidential messages.”
Churchill snapped a crisp salute.
“What are your plans for this morning, Watson? Should you care to join me in a visit to the Diogenes Club? My brother Mycroft requires my presence at eleven precisely for a conference on the Brussels case. I should warn you that the luncheon menu at the Diogenes consists entirely of dishes that once graced the tables of the members’ public schools: the leathery toad is in its hole, the comforting roly-poly pudding is smothered in sulphurous yellow custard.”
“Thank you,” I said uncertainly. “I have several neglected tasks, duties rather, that I should attend to. And we must surely inform the police of the whereabouts of White. He is the chief suspect in a brutal murder. And Bobby and the servant are still in danger.”
“I have Herr Wolff close watched. Hotel employees have been bribed, the cab rank nearest to the hotel is ours to a man, and the Irregulars are camped opposite the door. He may yet lead us to Bobby. It is no part of my charter as a consulting detective to do the work of the regular police. Lestrade has an excellent description of the man, although White has gone to some trouble to disguise himself. That was how he was discovered.”
He went back to his newspaper and there was a long pause.
I sighed. “How?”
Holmes flipped down a corner of his Times.
“He hired a couple of brutes to aid him in his search for the boy. One of them enquired at a pub in Southwark where top-quality slum paper might be had.”
“Slum what?”
“False documents. The enquiry passed through several intermediaries and a deal was struck for White to become Herr Wolff. The papers were excellent. They were produced by a master screever.”
“Wiggins’s uncle!” I said.
“Exactly.”
“Ha, so much for the honour of the Irregulars. White came to them!”
Holmes shrugged. “A good regiment is invariably a lucky one. Is there any coffee left? I must away too, Watson. That devil, Baron Maupertuis wove a most intricate web in eight countries and three empires. Let us meet at the British Museum at five.”
Billy entered with a brown-paper wrapped package for Holmes.
“What do you make of it, Watson?” He passed the package to me.
“It is about quarto-sized. It could be a book: a thin, light book.” I examined the address and stamp. “Posted in Holborn yesterday. Addressed in a female hand in violet ink, wrapped with best-quality brown paper and twine; the paper is very well-folded.”
“Notice that all the knots are the same, exactly spaced,” said Holmes. “There are no unsightly wisps of twine to spoil the effect.”
“Yes, and the corners are as tight as could be.”
“Well?”
“I confess that I have nothing more to add, Holmes.”
“Ha! I wrote to Gamages Store in Holborn some days ago to suggest an addition to their range of lead toy soldiers. I proposed that they commission a set of detectives. I enclosed a portrait photograph of myself in a suitable pose, pistol at the ready. As a courtesy, I recommended Alphonse Bertillon and François le Villard in France and Von Waldbaum in Germany as other candidates.
“I was hesitant at first. Bertillon, although technically brilliant, has little practical knowledge, and he is quite possibly insane. Le Villard merely plods along in the profession, limited by his intellectual capacity. He also has a considerable paunch. I wrote to Barker, my rival across the River, and he has agreed to the scheme. Mr Leverton of the Pinkerton Agency is still considering -”
“What of Lestrade?” I asked. “Or Inspector Gregson?”
We mopped our eyes with our handkerchiefs and stifled our laughter as Bessie came in and cleared the breakfast table.
“My brother Mycroft has naturally refused to become involved. I have no doubt that this package, so professionally wrapped with the special paper used by the parcels department at Gamages, contains the proofs for the lead figure of me brandishing my pistol.”
“I see, Holmes,” I said, taken aback. “You told me of the models, but I had no idea that your proposition was serious.”
He snipped the twine with a pair of scissors and unwrapped the package.
“I hope that they have not portrayed me in some eccentric position, or wearing a ridiculous hat, or smoking a peculiar - oh, it is a book.”
I looked over his shoulder.
“It is an illustrated edition of the poems of Edward Lear,” I said. “Who is it from?”
Holmes opened the cover. “There is an inscription: ah, just so.” He put the book down on the table, open to the inscription. “I must away. Come, Churchill.”
He left; I read the inscription.
To my knights in shining armour, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson and Master Churchill, with my enduring gratitude.
It was signed, Elizabeth Caspar, Miss.
A pale-blue envelope peeked out from halfway through the book. I opened it to the page and found that the letter was addressed to Churchill, Holmes, and to me.
At lunchtime, I determined that the alphabetical order of the names of the addressees suggested an equality that allowed me to open the envelope and read the contents. It was an invitation to tea at five that day.
I put down the letter and looked at the strange little drawing of a chick that accompanied the poem on the page in which the envelope had been inserted. I read the poem aloud, beating the rhythm in the air.
“WHO, or why, or which, or what,
Is the Akond of Swat?
Is he tall or short, or da
rk or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or chair,
OR SQUAT?
The Akond of Swat?
Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup or his coffee cold,
OR HOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk,
OR TROT,
The Akond of Swat?”
The doorbell rang downstairs.
“Does he wear a turban, a fez or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat,
OR A COT,
The Akond of Swat?
When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his T’s and finish his I’s
WITH A DOT,
The Akond of Swat?”
A voice joined me from the stairs.
“Can he write a letter concisely clear
Without a speck or a smudge or a smear
OR BLOT,
The Akond of Swat?”
“Ah, Churchill,” I said as he appeared at the door.
“I was at the British Museum, Doctor. Guess what I found.”
“I need to send two telegrams,” I said. “Then I have a mind to teach you percentages. A subaltern friend in Afghanistan said that they always came up at the entrance examination for Harrow.”
“Oh dear,” said Churchill. “Surely not in the modern age?”
“It is almost three o’clock. We started our studies at one. What percentage of an eight-hour day have we spent on our mathematical endeavours?”
“A considerable one, Doctor,” said Churchill yawning. “A large proportion; much, in fact.”
I sighed. “Are you not ashamed, young man, that our pageboy, Billy knows more of percentages than you, the son of a Chancellor of the Exchequer?”
