by Amy Thomas
The drive was uneventful, and we arrived at Baker Street within a quarter of an hour. I had the presence of mind to tell the driver to wait, thinking that Holmes might wish to use the cab. Upon banging at the door, we were met by the detective himself, who stared at us with surprise. It was difficult to shock my friend, and under pleasanter circumstances, I would have been delighted.
“Billy’s missing,” I said quickly. “Is it by design?”
“No. How long ago?” asked Holmes immediately.
“I don’t know exactly,” I answered. “Some time this evening. I heard two maids talking about it.”
“No chance he’s just gone off for a lark?” asked Wiggins hopefully.
“Certainly not,” my friend answered. “Not Billy. Wiggins, I want you to stay in the flat until we return. There’s no reason to have you along and in further danger.” I was flattered that Holmes had chosen me to accompany him, but I pitied Wiggins, who looked supremely crestfallen; nevertheless, he followed his employer into the flat like a faithful spaniel.
“Wait here,” said Holmes, turning his head back in my direction. After a moment, he returned with a small black case that he often brought with him. “Wiggins,” he reiterated, “stay here and wait to see if Billy makes contact.” The boy nodded obediently and did not voice his obvious disappointment.
Holmes and I went to the cab together, and I could tell that he was tightly coiled, like a Jack-in-the-Box that was ready to spring open.
“I deduce that you planned an expedition of your own this evening,” he said, once we were on our way back to the Savoy, the scene of the supposed abduction. I nearly asked him how he knew, since I was so preoccupied that I had forgotten my unusual attire.
“You needn’t berate me,” I said. “I have already realised that it was a foolish idea.”
“I have no intention of doing so,” he retorted. “I merely wished to ascertain what steps you had planned to take.”
“There’s a public house near Bethnal Green, a den of iniquity sort of place, where unusual information used to be available for a price. I would have liked to don a costume even further from gentility to visit it, but this was the only thing at my immediate disposal.”
“I know the place,” answered my friend, “and you’d have been disappointed in your visit, for it was pulled down some time ago.” I was glad, again, that my errand had been prevented.
“Is there no other establishment of a similarly squalid but forthcoming nature?” I asked.
“Oh, several,” he replied. “The problem is, the information gleaned is more likely to be what the hearer wishes than the real truth, especially in cases where life is at stake.” I had to concede the point. My own successful attempt to gain information, carried out several years before, had been related to something much less important. “I have made discoveries this evening that you ought to know,” he continued.
“Yes?”
“The main one is that Sergeant Keating has been following me.”
“Keating? Lestrade’s assistant?”
“The very same.”
I blinked hard a few times. “Have you confronted him?”
“Not yet. He should know by my peculiar behaviour this evening that I am aware that someone is tailing me, but he does not know that I am aware of his identity.”
“Is it possible Lestrade put him up to it?”
“During the earlier part of our acquaintance, I might have thought so,” said Holmes, “but though he has not become cleverer over the years, he has learned to trust my methods. Besides, this explains the link between our plans and the gang.”
“I see,” I answered. I wanted to ask Holmes what he planned to do, but we had arrived at the hotel. “I must go in the servants’ entrance,” I said. “It will hardly look right for me to be prowling around outside with you in this getup.”
“That suits my purposes,” said Holmes. “I wish to question the hotel staff. If Billy disappeared while working, there is a very great chance that someone saw something relevant.”
“I don’t - I acquired this dress from one of the maids. I don’t want to get her into trouble,” I said, as we walked back towards the hotel. There were fewer people than usual about, as most of the guests were inside for the night.
“I suggest a different course, then,” he said. “If we enter by the main entrance, I will ask to be shown to the highest possible authority. I will create enough of a commotion that you can slip up to your room and then return in your normal guise. If anyone asks - did you not have a story for the girl whose dress you’re wearing?”
“I told her I was attending a masquerade party.”
“Then I suggest we say the same to anyone else who asks and refuse to disclose where you acquired the garment. The staff of the Savoy Hotel is used to dealing with the eccentricities of the rich.”
“True,” I answered, following him through the large doors and into the gleaming lobby, which was lit late into the night for the convenience of guests returning from raucous parties.
“Girl, why aren’t you at your work?” I was barely inside before a shrill female voice stopped me.
I had hoped for less of a disturbance, but Holmes intervened. “Excuse this lady’s attire. We have been attending a masquerade party and are only just returning.” His tone was smooth and gentle, even charming.
“Excuse me, please, Sir,” said the same voice in a more ingratiating tone. I now saw that it belonged to a crisply starched, matronly figure of middle age. “I meant no disrespect.”
“Of course,” Holmes murmured. “I would like to speak to whoever is in charge at this hour of night.”
The woman’s face fell. “I hope that your stay here has not been in any way inadequate.”
“Quite the contrary,” said Holmes, continuing his act of cloying cheerfulness. “I want to compliment the excellence of the staff.”
In many contexts, such a request made at such an hour would have engendered raised eyebrows at the least and possibly even outright derision. The Savoy, however, was not like other establishments. Without betraying a single ounce of incredulity, the elegantly-dressed woman ushered us forward. “Follow me,” she said imperiously. We were taken down a carpeted hallway and into a wing of the ground floor I had not seen. It was as opulent as the rest of the hotel, but it was far quieter.
The severe woman seized the golden knocker on a thick wooden door and tapped it one time before entering the room. Holmes and I followed her into what seemed to me to be an outer office. It was large and airy and contained several chairs and a table, along with a heavy wooden desk. A tired-looking man sat behind it, and I experienced a moment of pity for the fact that he was working at such an hour. Holmes presented an outward appearance of calm, but I knew him well enough and had learned enough of his methods of observation to realise that the stiff set of his shoulders and the clenched fists at his sides meant that he chafed against the inevitable delay.
“Wilson, these guests wish to compliment the hotel,” said our hostess. The man raised his bleary eyes and stared at us in confusion.
“Thank you for your help,” said Holmes quickly, turning towards the haughty woman. “Please return to your work. I’m sure you have a great number of important things to do.” My friend did not often exert his social will in this way, but when he did, the combination of seeming courteous but imperiously determined was formidable. Without another word, the woman left the office.
A moment after she had gone, I followed, without looking back at Holmes. I could easily imagine the trajectory of events. He would use the tired secretary to gain an audience with the night manager and insist on questioning the staff. If he encountered resistance, the threat of a visit from the official police would encourage compliance.
As I made my way to the ascending rooms, I put my head down and stared fi
rmly at the floor in order to discourage comment or communication. The idea had not escaped me that if Billy had been taken from inside the hotel, I might suffer the same fate, but I also knew, as, doubtlessly, did Holmes, that the perpetrators would have been fools to remain at the scene of the crime and risk exposure. For that reason, I forced myself not to worry. My mind was, instead, taken up with trying to push back thoughts of Billy’s fate. I did not want to consider the possibility that his lifeless body might be lying somewhere with a stab wound through its heart.
When I reached my room, I entered quickly and set about undressing as rapidly as I could, exchanging the maid’s uniform for a sensible brown skirt and white shirtwaist. My body was weary enough to make me desire to simply lie down and let my concerns pass into sleep, but I knew that I must not. Holmes’s work would continue late into the night, and so must mine. I shook my head at the thought of my failed attempt at prowling London dressed as a hotel maid, but I re-emerged clad in Irene Adler’s clothing and feeling her anger at Billy’s disappearance.
Here I had heard what he had heard, I had seen what he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident that he saw clearly not only what had happened, but what was about to happen, while to me the whole business was still confused and grotesque.
- The Red-Headed League
Chapter 12: Holmes
The detective watched as more than twenty maids, ten night porters, and the ground floor butler lined up before him in the office of the Savoy Hotel’s evening manager. He looked down the two orderly lines and deduced a love affair between a porter and a maid, the butler’s overweening fondness for beer, and various other details, none of which suggested immediate relevance to the case at hand. Some of the faces were guilty, some calm, others annoyed at being called from work. Unfortunately for the detective’s purposes, a guilty look could mean a myriad of things that had nothing whatsoever to do with lawlessness, let alone a particular offence.
“Do you find this satisfactory, Mr Holmes?” asked the manager nervously. Contrary to Holmes’s expectation, he had not found it at all difficult to gain admittance to the man’s office. By nature, he was obviously a friendly, gregarious individual, but the description of the gravity of the situation had dampened the high spirits with which he had initially greeted the detective.
“Perfectly so,” Holmes answered, noting that the manager’s cheeks were flushed and that his red hair clung to his forehead with the slight dampness of perspiration. The man’s every action was intensely professional, but Holmes could see that he was unraveling at the edges.
With, seemingly, all the authority his thirty or so years could muster, the man cleared his throat and began to speak loudly over the hum of the voices of the gathering staff. “You have all been called to help give information about a serious matter,” he said. “The police are not involved at present, but they may very well become so if anyone chooses to be uncooperative. Now, Mr Holmes, I’ll let you speak.”
As Holmes was about to open his mouth, the office door opened once again, and The Woman stepped inside. Her presence was welcome, because it would allow him to separate the staff into groups and question them more quickly. He trusted her to single out potential witnesses for his further examination. She took her place by his side, appearing assured and calm in spite of the attention of a room full of people.
“Thank you for assembling,” said the detective. “I am here to enquire about the disappearance, this evening, of a newly-employed porter by the name of Billy.” He could see, as he spoke, that the news was known to some but a shock to others. He noted those who looked excessively surprised, since their reaction proved that they were either uninvolved or trying hard to appear so. “I will now walk around and tap some of you on the shoulder. When I do, I would like you to follow Miss Adler into the office across the hall, where she will hear your stories.” With that, he went through the two lines and selected each of the shocked individuals. As Irene made her way for the door, he brushed past her and whispered uninvolved or extremely guilty, having faith that she would understand his shorthand. If Holmes had had his way, he would have liked to question each person individually, but he was ever conscious of the infuriating fact that each moment that passed might mean the difference between life and death for his faithful page.
The group that remained in the manager’s inner office was smaller than Irene’s. He had kept it for himself because of its potential ambiguity. These were the members of the staff who had shown no discernable reaction or had displayed signs of already having heard about the disappearance. The detective took his seat behind the manager’s desk, wishing to create an impression of distance and authority. Left to his jurisdiction were seven maids, the floor butler, and six porters. It made sense, of course, for a larger proportion of porters to have already known about the event since Billy had worked with them.
“Do any of you wish to make a statement?” asked Holmes. No one moved, and he looked towards the back of the office, where the anxious manager paced behind his employees. “Mr Evans, would you be so good as to send word to the kitchen and ask if anyone might have information they wish to add?” Obviously glad to have been given an errand, the man left immediately with a determined tread. The detective didn’t expect to receive much, if any, information, but he wished to ensure the manager’s absence while he interviewed the staff.
“Now,” said Holmes, “you may feel free to speak. As I understand it, Billy was working as a porter until about two hours ago. Is this true?” The detective noted that five of the porters looked pointedly towards one of the others, who appeared to be the oldest. He stepped forward.
“Yes, he had been here since morning. He was helping guests from the front lobby up to their rooms as we all do. About an hour and three quarters or two hours ago, I noticed that he had not returned for an inordinate amount of time. I asked, and no one had seen him. He might have disappeared before that. I haven’t seen him for at least two hours. I had originally assumed he was with a party of guests.” The man stepped back.
“Has anyone seen him since that time?” asked Holmes.
One of the maids hesitantly came half a step towards the desk. She was young, no more than sixteen to the detective’s eyes. “I - saw him with a man and a woman. It weren’t more than two hours ago.”
At this, Holmes felt his heartbeat quicken. “Yes?” he said, forcing gentleness into his voice, since the girl looked like she might go silent at any moment. “Exactly what did you see?”
The girl blinked a few times. “He were - carrying two suitcases and taking them up to their floor. I don’t know which one.”
“What did these people look like?” asked Holmes.
The girl looked more confident. “Very rich! And she had on a beautiful ermine fur.”
The detective breathed deeply. “How old were they?”
“Young,” she answered vaguely.
“Thank you,” said Holmes, feeling like he had exhausted his resource. “Did anyone else see this?”
No one came forward, but the detective used the moment to scan the faces before him to see if any of them showed flickers of recognition that they refused to share. He mentally singled out two of the porters and a maid who looked as if they might be hiding something. The butler, a distinguished-looking man of high middle age, appeared exceedingly bored by the whole thing.
“What is your name?” Holmes asked the maid who had spoken.
“Hattie Aldridge,” she answered quietly.
“Very well, Miss Aldridge,” he said. “You may be required to give a statement to the police.” Her large, blue eyes filled with sudden fearful tears. The detective had hoped things would proceed in this manner. He had mentioned the police on purpose in order to try to engender sympathy in any members of the group who were fond of the young maid. She was comely enough, in a mousy sort of way, and he had seen some of the porters’ eyes
drift towards her several times.
To the detective’s surprise, the butler suddenly snapped to attention as if he had been poked. “That won’t be necessary,” he said quickly. “If I may, I wish to speak with you privately.”
“Certainly,” said Holmes. “The rest of you may go into the outer office. Do not leave until I give the word.” The others shuffled out as a group, but Hattie was the last to go. She gave a poignant look to the old butler before finally taking her leave.
“Now,” said the detective, “what do you wish to tell me?”
“I also saw the couple in question,” said the butler, “and I know the identity of the young lady in the ermine fur. It is not my habit to gossip about guests, but I suppose there is no help for it in the current predicament.”
“Quite so,” said Holmes. “Who was she?”
Speaking very low and bringing his head closer to the detective’s, the butler finally uttered, “Lady Helen Dabney, daughter of the earl.”
“Thank you. Do you know the identity of the man she was with?”
“He was American,” said the butler, “no more than thirty, I wouldn’t think. He seemed - like a gentleman, though I have little to say about a man who brings the unmarried daughter of an earl to a hotel, exposing her to public scorn. He spoke with an accent I have heard described as southern in origin.”
“This has been very helpful,” said Holmes, meaning it. “You’ve most likely saved Miss Aldridge from having to provide a statement.” He could not resist saying this, as an attempt to better understand the obvious connection between the butler and the maid.
