Mrs Grimes hardly heard these words as she gazed admiringly at the two gold coins. ‘Whatever you say, sir,’ she said absentmindedly, slipping the sovereigns into her apron pocket.
Five
Dr Watson’s Journal
Charlotte Temple seemed very surprised to see us so soon after our last visit. ‘You have news,’ she cried excitedly, running towards my friend as we entered the drawing room.
Holmes shook his head. ‘Alas, no. It is too soon to hope for developments, but I believe that you have information for me.’
Mrs Temple’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘I am afraid that I do not understand you, Mr Holmes.’
My friend sighed. ‘I do not wish to be indelicate, but you have not confided in us the absolute truth. By omission you have concealed an important piece of evidence. The boy William is not your natural son, is he?’
Charlotte Temple paled and dropped down on to the sofa. For some moments she seemed lost for words.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said at last.
‘I think you do. I would not raise this point if it were not of the utmost importance in this case. I think it would be wise if you told us the truth.’
‘The truth? Oh, the truth.’ She took a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes, which had begun to water. ‘The truth isn’t something we have thought about or talked about for years.’
‘Well, perhaps it is time to do so now. It may save the life of your son.’
Mrs Temple’s eyes widened. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I would rather not discuss half-formed theories at present. Not until I have all the facts of the matter to hand. So, if you would be so kind…’
She pursed her lips and gave a sigh of resignation. ‘Very well. You are right. William is not our true son. I cannot have children. We found that out to our great regret nearly ten years ago. It was a tremendous blow to both my husband and me and nearly destroyed our marriage. It was a desperate time for us. And then Ronald learned of an establishment… somewhere we could adopt a child.’
‘A baby farm,’ said Holmes, making no attempt to keep the note of distaste from his voice.
Mrs Temple nodded. ‘A baby farm. I know what you must be thinking. I am aware that these places are regarded as being… disreputable.’
‘To say the least,’ snapped Holmes.
My friend was correct. Baby farms were establishments where unwanted and illegitimate children were taken in for a payment. These places often ill-treated the infants or even murdered them once the money was paid. Some offered the children up for adoption to those unfortunate couples who could not have children of their own, but the whole trade was shabby and illegal.
‘When one is desperate, Mr Holmes, one grasps at straws. And we were desperate for a child and here was an opportunity to make our family complete.’
‘It is not my position to judge you in this matter, madam.’
Her eyes flashed with anger and her body stiffened. ‘You certainly are not, sir. Your implied censure is misplaced. You cannot appreciate the despair one feels at being unable to have a child when you ache to have one. It colours your whole life. We felt our household incomplete without a little one to care for. And when an opportunity presents itself to help you achieve this ambition, however circuitous and unconventional, all you do is thank your good fortune. In reality, we rescued a young boy from a terrible fate and gave him a good home filled with affection and care. Who knows if he would have survived without our help? In our eyes, William is our true son; the bond and love between us is as strong and secure as if we were his natural parents.’
Charlotte Temple spoke with such passion that my friend seemed somewhat taken aback. He bowed his head. ‘I am sorry for appearing insensitive to your plight. As Dr Watson will avow there are some occasions when I fail to respond appropriately to a situation. I understand and appreciate all that you have told me. Please forgive me.’
Mrs Temple gave a brief nod of acknowledgement.
‘Does William know that he is adopted?’ Holmes asked after a brief pause.
‘No. I am afraid both my husband and I shied away from the prospect of telling him. In truth we were torn between the desire to let him know the truth and maintaining the myth that he really was truly and fully ours.’
‘I will need details of this establishment, this baby farm.’
‘Good heavens! Why?’
‘It is where the trail begins and it may lead us to where the trail ends. This is not an idle request, I assure you.’
For a moment, Mrs Temple did not respond and then she rose from the sofa in a swift movement. ‘Very well, if you think it is important.’
‘I do.’
‘Please wait here.’ Without another word she left the room, leaving us alone.
Holmes turned to me and placed a finger to his lips. ‘Not a word of censure, Watson. I know I was a little… crass. I have made amends.’
I said nothing, but rolled my eyes in a disapproving fashion.
In a few moments, Mrs Temple returned with a sheet of paper, which she handed to Holmes. ‘This is the address of the establishment. The woman in charge was a Mrs Chandler. Gertrude Chandler. But of course that was eight years ago.’
‘Thank you,’ said Holmes, folding the paper and placing it in his pocket. ‘Come, Watson, our business here is done. We have work to do. I shall be in touch in due course, Mrs Temple, when I hope we shall have news for you.’
Six
Dr Watson’s Journal
On returning to our cab, Holmes gave the driver an address in Camberwell. I assumed that it was the address of the baby farm.
‘What do you think you will learn there?’ I asked as we rattled along.
‘Well, the obvious,’ replied Holmes smugly.
‘Which is?’
‘The name of the boy’s true parents or more likely just that of his mother, for it’s likely that the boy was born out of wedlock and the mother was abandoned once the father had found she was with child. That is the common scenario.’
It was a sad but realistic assessment. While I had not encountered such cases in my own rather staid medical practice, I had heard of many such from colleagues working at St Bart’s and St Thomas’ Hospital: women cast aside by their men once in the family way, as to brutes of a certain mentality a child was an unnecessary financial encumbrance. This placed the mother in a terrible dilemma. Some sought to end the pregnancy by medical intervention; some brave souls attempted to bring the child up themselves and resorted to prostitution to secure the means of doing so; and some, in dark desperation, murdered the child once it had been born. And then there were those who passed their baby on to the kind of establishment we were about to visit. These thoughts passed through my mind as we made our way to Camberwell and cast a shadow over my mood.
We travelled south of the river and eventually the cab pulled up outside a detached property on John Ruskin Street off the Walworth Road. It was a large undistinguished house and it had seen better days. It stood a little back from the road and the small garden that fronted it was mere scrubland, dotted with sickly plants. Paint was peeling from the door and window frames. The whole place had a forlorn and neglected air about it.
Holmes instructed the cabbie to wait for us once more and we made our way up the path and used the rusty knocker to announce our presence. Some moments later the door was opened by a scrap of a girl dressed in a shabby housemaid’s uniform. She curtsied in a clumsy mechanical fashion.
‘How can I help you gents?’ she asked.
Holmes smiled in an uncharacteristically ingratiating fashion. ‘We have business with Mrs Chandler. Be so good as to inform her of our arrival.’ So saying he took a step forward over the threshold, causing the girl to retreat into the hallway. Suitably intimidated by Holmes’s forthright nature and imposing presence, she curtsied again and with a nervous frown scurried off down the hall into the gloom beyond.
Holmes gave a little chuckle.
‘She’s only little more than a baby herself,’ he murmured.
After a short wait, a tall, thin woman appeared before us. She had gaunt, angular features and the most penetrating blue eyes I have seen. Her hair was swept back into a tight bun that emphasised the severity of her expression. I would have placed her in her mid-forties, but she could have been older. She was dressed in a long amber silk dress, more suitable, I would have thought, for an evening soirée than the daytime.
‘I am Mrs Chandler. Is it business, gentlemen?’ she asked. Her tone was cool and formal although not unpleasant, but there was no warmth in those eyes.
‘Yes,’ said Holmes.
‘Then you’d better come into my office.’ Without another word, she turned and with a swish of her dress retraced her steps, leading us down the hall to a door.
‘Come in, gentlemen,’ she said, holding it open for us.
The chamber was small and cluttered. There was a desk, a small table harbouring an empty decanter and some glasses, several chairs and an enormous aspidistra in the corner. She bade us take a seat while she positioned herself behind the desk, which was strewn with papers.
‘You have a child?’ she said, leaning back in her chair.
‘We do not,’ said Holmes sharply.
She raised her eyebrows in mild surprise. ‘You want a child?’
Holmes shook his head. ‘We come on a different kind of business.’
Mrs Chandler tensed and her eyes hooded unpleasantly. ‘Oh?’
‘My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am a private consulting detective.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Sherlock Holmes,’ she repeated. She had obviously heard of him. Her features darkened. ‘What on earth can a private detective want with me?’
‘Oh, please, madam, let us not be naïve.’
This remark ruffled her feathers and Mrs Chandler stiffened her back and leaned forward, her eyes fierce and challenging. ‘Please state your business, gentlemen. I do not have time for idlers.’
‘I am here to trace the mother of one of the babies you… had in your care some eight years ago. A baby you placed with Ronald and Charlotte Temple.’
‘Impossible.’ The word came sharply like the slamming of a door.
‘I want nothing more from you but this information that I am sure you are able to provide. However, if you prevaricate or prove obstructive, I can easily arrange for the full weight of the law to fall upon you and your… your dubious establishment. This is not, I assure you, a veiled threat. It is an open one and easily implemented.’
At this statement, issued by Holmes in a cold measured tone with a definite edge of menace, Mrs Chandler blanched, her hands fluttering over the desk like nervous butterflies.
‘I cannot help you,’ she said, regaining her composure. ‘We do not keep such records. There would be little point. You will appreciate that most women who come to us do not give their real names or other details. They don’t wish to be traced.’
‘I am sure you will remember this case. The young boy was named William by the Temples. He had a birthmark resembling a pyramid.’
The eyes flickered with recognition, but Mrs Chandler shook her head. ‘Eight years is a long time. Many children pass through our hands with all kinds of blemishes and marks on their shoulders, faces, everywhere. When you’ve been in this business as long as I have they all merge into one – or into none.’ She was growing in confidence now and rose from her chair. ‘You are, I am afraid, on a wild goose chase, Mr Holmes, and I am unable to accompany you.’
‘Unable or unwilling?’
‘I must ask you to leave now. I am very busy…’
She moved briskly to the door and opened it. We left without a word.
‘She is lying,’ said Holmes, once we were outside the building.
‘That was my impression.’
‘That was my deduction. Note how easily she referred to the possibility of the birthmark being on the boy’s shoulder, quickly adding other locations to cover her faux pas. And did you not observe the cabinets further down the hallway?’
‘I must confess that I did not.’
‘Several wooden cabinets. Filing cabinets, I’ll stake my life on it. And what do you find in filing cabinets? Files. Information. Records. No doubt one of those cabinets would offer up the information we require, but I doubt Mrs Chandler would need to refer to it. I am certain it is lodged here.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘She clearly remembered the boy, and his birthmark.’
‘What now?’ I asked as I clambered back inside our waiting cab.
‘Back to Baker Street and a short respite from our duties. Tea and a sleep, for we have important work to carry out tonight.’
Seven
Mrs Chandler’s visitors had not been out of the building more than five minutes before she was making a telephone call.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Mrs Chandler.’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s trouble.’
‘Go on.’
‘I’ve had a visit from Sherlock Holmes.’
‘Have you now.’
‘He was asking about the boy. He must be on the case.’
‘That is unfortunate. What did you tell him?’
‘Nothing. What do you take me for? But he won’t be satisfied with my claims of ignorance. I could see that he didn’t believe me.’
‘Of course not. It is rather unfortunate that he had to get involved. No doubt the Temples have engaged his services to find the child. Oh, well, we will deal with Mr Holmes. Action will have to be taken.’
‘Action?’
‘He’ll have to be disposed of.’
‘And as soon as possible, if you want my advice.’
‘I think I can live without your advice, Mrs Chandler, but certainly I shall have to act quickly. I am well aware that Mr Holmes is a force to be reckoned with. The sooner he is dealt with the better. Leave the matter with me.’
The line went dead. Mrs Chandler slowly replaced the earpiece. Her bright blue eyes clouded with concern. She hoped that was the last of the matter, but something told her that it was not.
The recipient of Mrs Chandler’s telephone call left his desk and moved over to the window. He gazed out onto the murky swell of the Thames, which glinted erratically in the dim sunlight. However, he was not admiring the view; his mind was elsewhere. He was devising a means by which to end Sherlock Holmes’s career once and for all.
Eight
Dr Watson’s Journal
The activity that Sherlock Holmes had planned for us that evening was a spot of burgling. I believe he had a secret passion for this pursuit. It certainly wasn’t the first time he had inveigled me into accompanying him to break into premises late at night. It was as though his so upright and moral soul took delight in this nefarious activity, excusing it on the grounds that it was carried out for just and lawful purposes. He often claimed that had he not chosen to fight on the side of the angels, he would have made a very successful criminal.
‘If Mrs Chandler refuses to provide us with the information we require, we must take it for ourselves. We need to gain access to those cabinets,’ he assured me as he outlined his plans for that night’s activity. He broke off suddenly and looked at me seriously. ‘I’m sorry, old fellow, I am afraid I am rather taking your involvement for granted. I assumed that you would want to accompany me tonight. I had no right to do so.’ He gave me one of his strange, twisted grins. ‘It is not obligatory.’
‘You know that I have reservations about such ventures, but nevertheless… I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
‘Good man,’ he beamed. ‘I thought I knew my Watson. So, we leave Baker Street just before midnight. I have all the appropriate tools to ease our entry, but it will be a tricky exercise. There will be infants on the premises and no doubt someone will be about to serve their nocturnal needs. Fortunately, as far as I was able to ascertain from our visit today, the nursing quarters are nowhere near Mrs Chandler’s office and the c
orridor that houses those precious cabinets. We need to locate the papers relating to the year 1887 and then it should not take us long to secure the information that we need.’
I nodded solemnly, but said nothing. Holmes was more sanguine about the success of our mission than I was. He had the remarkable facility of suppressing his imagination on such occasions and focusing solely on the task in view. On the other hand, my mind concocted various obstacles and problems, dramatic scenarios that would hinder or even foil our efforts. These thoughts I kept to myself.
At the appointed hour we left our quarters and walked the length of Baker Street before hailing a cab. We had the driver take us to within half a mile of our destination and then made the rest of the way to the Chandler establishment on foot.
It was a still but cool night, with the pavements damp from an earlier shower. We walked in silence, apart from our footsteps, which rang out in an eerie staccato fashion in the empty streets.
‘From our visit this morning I observed that there was a small window at the side of the house that should give us easy access,’ said Holmes, his voice now little more than a whisper as we stood in the shadows across the street from the house. The building seemed to be in complete darkness: there was no glimmer of light from any of the windows and it stood like a dark monolith, silhouetted against the midnight sky. Luckily for us the thoroughfare was dimly lighted and there was only the sliver of a crescent moon, which kept disappearing behind a trail of ragged clouds. Stealthily we slipped across the street, and made our way down the side of the building.
‘This is it,’ Holmes said, pointing to a small casement window, some five feet from the ground. He knelt down and opened a canvas bag containing his burgling tools. He extracted a large chisel. ‘I’ll see if I can prise it open; smashing the glass would be too noisy.’
I nodded in agreement.
‘I think I would gain greater purchase if I were on a level with the window. So if you’ll do me the honours, old chap.’
The Ripper Legacy Page 3
