So, I thought, whoever owned the expensive handkerchief was indeed of the nobility, or at the least a wealthy man.
Lestrade gave further orders before addressing us. “Are you willing to act under my instructions for this?” I nodded. “Very well, then. Follow Harrison.”
Lestrade walked silently down the lane, four men at his heels, while Harrison, a very tall constable named Berrenson, together with Holmes and I, waited.
Harrison consulted his watch, until of a sudden he moved to the wall again. “I’d rather wait inside than out here. Berrenson, up and over, get that gate open.”
The lanky constable obeyed, climbing the pyramid of bins and covering the glass with his tunic. He scrambled over cautiously, yet not without a rending of cloth and a smothered yelp. We heard the bolt being pulled back, but the gate did not open.
“Berrenson?” Harrison whispered.
“Sorry, sir, seems to be locked, too.”
Harrison drew back as if to charge the gate, but Holmes caught him by the arm. “You won’t break it down, they’ll have thought of that. I have another solution.” He produced a toothed blade from his pocket, pointed to the gate’s hinges, and Harrison grinned and took it from him.
“Where’d you get that, Mr. Holmes?”
“Mrs. Knox, Miss Emily Jackson’s landlady.”
Harrison sawed back and forth against the hinges—spitting on it as lubrication now and again—until the top hinge gave way. Luckily it took only minutes before the gate sagged, and Harrison took hold of it on our side while Berrenson seized it from the other. In seconds we were able to twist it to one side and enter the yard. There the constable took the blade and addressed the padlock. That too had just yielded when a confused murmur arose in the house. This noise became louder until we could hear individual voices, ending in a shout.
Harrison heaved the shed door open and dived in. “Come on, in here.” We tumbled in and shut the door again, the constable still holding the severed padlock in one hand.
Then with a crash, the back door of the house opened, and a confused crowd spilled out. Peering through the filthy window I could see Lestrade and his men battling what looked to be four drunken sailors. As the fight raged I saw a slender whip of a man slip past, heading for the gate. Holmes had seen the same, and in what appeared to be a single movement he seized the padlock from Berrenson, flung open the door, and threw the heavy lock at the back of the fugitive’s head. It hit home, and the man fell and lay motionless while the battle raged around and over him.
Either for love of a good fight, or perhaps feeling they should stand by their superior, both Harrison and the constable bolted forth and joined Lestrade. Finally, still cursing and swinging, the sailors were subdued and handcuffed. Harrison returned to us with his jacket torn and shirt-collar wrenched off.
Holmes spoke urgently. “Find a light, a candle, a lantern, anything. Quickly!”
Harrison fled into the house and returned with a packet of candles. Holmes lit one and held it up. A man lay in the corner, half-covered in straw.
“That’s Len,” said Harrison.
Holmes stooped to the captive, holding the light carefully away from the flammable straw. He looked up. “He’s alive. Watson?”
I leapt to check and agreed. “He’s in a bad way, however. Summon a police vehicle fast as you can. If we waste no time he should live, but it may be some hours before he can speak.”
Lestrade’s hopeful look faded at that, but he sent one of his men running for help, which was only a short time in arriving. Gently the wounded man was removed from his noisome confinement and conveyed to hospital, accompanied by two of the constables, while Lestrade, Holmes, Harrison, and I examined the shed. We then moved to the house, where the four sailors were held in handcuffs, and where Berrenson stood guard over the slender man Holmes had felled. His hands had been tied behind him with cord from the washing line, and he looked most unhappy.
Lestrade surveyed the five prisoners. “Well, maybe someone will be willing to talk.” He pointed to the man Berrenson guarded. “Take that man to another room, Berrenson. Shut the door, and watch him every minute. Now,” he turned to the sailors. “I am Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. I entered this house upon receiving information that one of my men was being held captive. On the entrance of my men and myself you attacked us, attempting to hamper us in the execution of our duties. What have you to say for yourselves?”
The smallest of them glared at him. “Wotja mean we ’ampered perlice. You come charging in an’ set abaht us. We didn’t do nuffin’ but fight fer our lives agin’ them as attacked us.” (I shall not continue any attempt to reproduce his accent, since it was almost incomprehensible.)
Lestrade nodded. “I see. What ship are you from?”
It seemed that they were on leave from one of our warships. When Lestrade pointed out that their captain would have something to say about sailors from his ship attacking the police, the atmosphere changed.
“Here, guv, it weren’t on purpose. This place is a boozing ken an’ they’re likely to have a go at any man they think too drunk to protect what he has. We was just playing cards and drinking quiet like, next thing I knows the door opens and a whole mix of people come in fighting. We did no more than try to escape it all.”
Lestrade looked thoughtful, as if considering this plea in mitigation. “Yes, I suppose that is possible. You may not have realized who we were. In that case, if you are open with me I shall allow you to leave and we shall not press charges. But I want every question answered. If I believe you to be lying or holding back it shall be the worse for you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, guv.”
In fact, all four did answer our questions as best they might, but they knew little. Summed up, this house had the reputation of providing very bad drink at low prices, and there were a couple of rooms where men might play cards while they drank. There were no women in the house, and the sailors had only ever seen two men on their visits, apart from the customers.
“Him you took with us were one of them.”
“And the other?”
“He left by the time we got here.”
More questions on that elucidated the information that there had originally been a second man who was usually in the house, but he’d vanished some two months earlier. He had been replaced by a third man, who had a room at the back and who had received a message shortly after the sailors arrived, and may have gone out in response to that.
“It were a boy what came. Lad of about ten or eleven, gave over an envelope wi’ money in that. I saw it.”
Holmes took over here and we discovered that the envelope had contained at least two sovereigns, or possibly guineas. He regarded the man. “What did this third man say when he opened the envelope? Tell me everything he said or did from the moment the boy handed the envelope to him.”
“He opened it, I heard a couple a’ coins chink together, and saw gold between his fingers, that’s how I know about them. Then he read the note inside, weren’t long, matter of a few lines mebbe. He spoke to himself like, said as how it were just as well word come, ’cos he didn’t like this caper, not above half, an’ he’d be glad to be shut of something.”
“Something?”
“He said a name mebbe, but he were turning away and I couldn’t hear it.”
“Ah,” Holmes said. “Give me a description of this man.”
“He’s tallish, heavy, but I don’t think it’s fat, not the way he walks. He don’t have a Lunnon accent, more outside’a the city a bit. He’ve a white face, a big moustache, and his hair is middling brown. He’ve eyes that ain’t no perticular shade.”
Lestrade snapped at him. “No particular shade, what does that mean?”
“Means I can’t tell. I seen them look sorta light brown er yellowish, then again sometimes they look sort’a gray.”
I intervened. “You could call them a light hazel, Inspector, but they’d appear to change according to the light a
nd what other color is behind the man. Holmes and I know a woman with eyes like that, and they can appear anything from light brown to amber to a medium gray even, depending on her clothing and make-up.”
Lestrade said something under his breath, and returned to questioning the sailor.
“Tallish? How tall is that?”
“Abaht as tall as Jimmy here.” I estimated his shipmate to be around five feet nine inches, and Lestrade noted that down.
“So” he said thoughtfully. “We have a man who is solid, but possibly more from muscle than fat, he has brown hair and a moustache. A moustache of what sort? Yes, I know you said it was large, what’s the shape of it, man?” When told that it was of no particular shape, he unsuccessfully suppressed a groan.
Holmes came to attention abruptly. “Tell me, did you ever hear either man called by name, a nickname, or any name at all?”
The sailor stared at him. “Yerse, sir, I did. T’ one you got, he’s called Jeb Siddons. A time back, just after Joe’d gone and this one come here, I heard them talk together. I were half out from the drink and I lay down on the floor to stop me head swimmin’. They come in an’, not knowing I were there, they talked a bit. Jeb called him Pers. He said it again afore they left and it were Pers right enough. Dunno what that meant.”
While I understood very little, Holmes appeared satisfied.
“No,” agreed Holmes, “I daresay you didn’t.” He exchanged glances with Harrison and Lestrade, who ordered the sailors removed. Once they were gone, Holmes leaned back in the chair he had taken. Lestrade eyed him.
“Pers?”
“Persimmon Brand. The description fits, but he usually operates outside of London. It’s interesting that from what that man says, Brand has been in and out of this house for at least two months. Brand wouldn’t be away from his usual place of business for that length of time unless there was a chance of a major profit. He’s very careful of his skin, and he doesn’t like violence if it can be avoided. I suggest you let those sailors go. Have them escorted to their ship and say if you catch them in the city again before their next voyage, you’ll have a word with their captain about all this.”
“In other words, clear the decks?” Lestrade’s eyes twinkled.
I laughed at his atrocious nautical pun, and even Holmes produced a slight smile.
“Exactly. They have told us all they can, and now that we have a name, your own office will have details of the man, and you can take him up any time you find him. Now, to turn our attention to the man we do have, this Jeb Siddons. I know of him by repute. He’s dangerous, vicious, and very fond of his own skin. Approach him the right way and if he isn’t truly involved in this case, he is likely to tell you whatever he knows.”
That may have been someone else’s opinion as well, since when we went to the other room to get him, we found Berrenson groaning his way back to consciousness and Siddons gone. (He subsequently turned up in a back street, stabbed in the heart from behind.) The constable had seen nothing, but he was certain that the door had not opened, as he’d been looking towards it when he was struck. At this Lestrade gave incisive orders and, with Harrison directing operations, the room’s back wall was broken down by the two remaining constables to reveal…
I snorted as I saw the result. “Don’t tell me: a secret passage.”
Holmes nodded. “Yes, it may, however, hold more than it appears.” He turned to Lestrade. “If I might suggest it, send the one of your men along that passage to see where it goes, where it comes out, and if there are other entrances. Look too for any suggestion of a cache, a worn place on the wall, or ceiling bosses for some decoration.”
A constable entered the opening bearing a candle, and after some time reported that there was another door that led out into the yard near the shed. He could find nothing else. Lestrade shrugged. “Mr. Holmes?”
“Thank you.” Holmes, having gone in search of a lantern and found one, lit it, and vanished into the passage. We heard tapping, movement, and soon thereafter we heard him call. “I have something.”
Lestrade bounded into the passage with me hot on his heels. Holmes was kneeling, looking at the wall. At our advent he raised the lantern higher and pointed, and we could see that there was a place on the wall that looked darker than the surrounding area, with greasy dirt ground into the wood. Holmes put down the lantern and placed his left hand on the worn spot. Before him the lantern light gleamed on a small section of the inside paneling. He planted his right hand on that spot and pressed downwards firmly.
Lestrade exclaimed as the entire length of the panel swung out, revealing a set of a dozen or so shelves, each the width of the panel—and about the depth of my hand. A miscellany of items were scattered on the shelves, but Lestrade had eyes only for a packet of papers, which he snatched up. He rifled through them, swore bitterly, and flipped through them again more slowly.
“Most are gone.”
Holmes stood. I had returned to the house and found a cloth bag in the kitchen, and now I reached over and swept all of the other items into the bag.
“I daresay you have no interest in these,” I said chidingly. “But there is cash and jewelry here, and you would not wish it to fall into the hands of villains again.”
“No, no, of course not,” Lestrade muttered, turning over the papers for the third time. He looked up. “Let us get out of here. I think we must talk, and I’d rather do it in comfort.” He ordered two constables to remain on guard at the house, one within the hall by the front door, the other in the back yard, while he and Harrison should come with us. Then he returned to his subject. “This Miss Jackson, what do you know of her? Is she trustworthy?” Both Holmes and I nodded. “Then let us go there. Tell me of her while we walk.”
That we did. Miss Emily Jackson had been an earlier client of Holmes’s and we both had formed an excellent opinion of her, so we were able to allay Lestrade’s fear that she was likely to chatter to friends of today’s events.
We explained that while Miss Emily had no real need to work, having a small private income sufficient to maintain her and Mandalay in moderate comfort, she also did not believe in being idle. She had therefore taken employment at a typing bureau that catered in particular to writers of scientific works; she, having had an excellent education, was particularly esteemed and often requested.
“Her employer told us that Miss Emily donates her wages to charity,” I told Lestrade. “However, she greatly enjoys the work, says it’s interesting and that she learns much.” And quoting her employer, “all those old scientific gents think the world of her.” I chuckled, and Holmes spoke.
“In fact you may recall the Vereker case, Lestrade?”
The Inspector’s face lit. “Yes, of course. So this is the lady, I had forgotten her name. Yes, she is surely trustworthy, since she never spoke a word about Vereker to anyone. I think she can be taken into our confidence.” He meditated for half a dozen strides before continuing.
“She is an orphan, is she not? Her parents died in an influenza epidemic when she was twenty-one. She inherited family money, has no close relatives, is of a serious turn of mind, and loves cats. One who had worked with her said that Miss Jackson thinks that if the opportunity to do right appears, then this should be acted upon, and she seems to have lived a blameless life. The lease of her apartment is paid yearly. Her cat is a Brown Burmese, rare in this country and valuable; it was given her by a friend of her father’s, a sea captain who traded in Burma a number of times and did the royal family a service. She should be safe enough, and we may find a use for her.”
We found Miss Emily waiting with a purring Mandalay, who deigned to approach both Holmes and me. We provided the expected attentions while Holmes gave Miss Emily a brief summary of our investigations, and seeing that we were preoccupied, the cat retired to his basket where he curled up, watching us with interest.
Lestrade praised the animal for his acumen, although as he laughingly added, “He is the best-looking cat burglar I hav
e ever seen, but beware Miss Emily, lest he bring you more valuable gifts and I am ordered to take him up as a villain.”
Miss Emily shook her head. “I do not think he stole those articles. I think that your man gave them to him hoping Mandalay would take them to an owner who would guess something of the situation. When the watch and glove brought no one to the rescue, he gave him the handkerchief, thinking that the blood upon it should produce the desired result—as it did. I am only sorry, from what Mr. Holmes tells me, that we may have been too late.”
Lestrade looked grave. “That may be, yet the police are indebted to you for your prompt and intelligent actions. Since you know so much of events, I have decided to speak to Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson here in your suite, allowing you the information as well and trusting that you will not speak of it to anyone. They assure me of your discretion, but I must ask for your most solemn oath.”
Her face became grave and her back straightened. “You have my word, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Nothing of what you reveal to me shall pass my lips, and if I can aid in any way whatsoever, you have only to tell me.”
Lestrade nodded. “Very well. This is what happened. You may all have heard of Lord Northgate. He is a long-time enthusiast of military campaigns and the paper artifacts they have generated, and he collected an immense number of maps, papers, letters, official orders, telegrams, and other such impedimenta in furtherance of his hobby. He began at age twelve, and in the course of the next forty years his collection had become vast and he, himself, hugely knowledgeable. He is a man also of an inventive and original turn of mind, and for his own amusement he drew up an imaginary campaign, complete with fortifications to be built on some of our overseas possessions, in the event we should ever come under attack from certain military powers.”
I opened then shut my mouth firmly on the question that sprang to mind. I could guess the rival power Northgate had in mind but what…which of our possessions did he deem to be in peril?
Sherlock Holmes in Something the Cat Dragged In Page 2
