by Cavan Scott
“Marcus came back a changed man. Determined to make something of his life, grateful to have battled through. He came to talk to me about the restaurant, told me that he wanted to reopen the old place. I was pleased as Punch, but he had big plans. The West End was different now, he said. New clubs for a new generation. Did I think his old man would mind? Of course, I didn’t. Ted was never one for looking back, but I told him, you’ve got to do it right. No funny business. I may not work round here any more, but I know what goes on in these places. That’s why they brought in the Act, didn’t they, first the midnight curfew and then the new closing times.”
Norwood was correct, of course. Concerned that the situation in the West End was out of control, with clubs open all day and night, the government passed new laws. Restaurants, pubs and clubs had to call time by half past nine in the evening. A glance at the clock above the bar showed that we were nearly at that point already.
“But Marcus is a good boy, Dr Watson, with a good head for business too. ‘I’m going to play it straight, Uncle,’ he said, and I believed him. He saw an opportunity and took it. Bringing in the band. Meeting young Elsie. My Ada wasn’t sure, but I said, he knows what he’s doing.”
“Elsie?” I asked.
“Elsie Kadwell. She was a singer, started off in Variety, before discovering the club scene. She came in here one evening and turned young Marcus’s head. Reckon it went both ways, him looking so dapper in that dinner jacket of his. He invited her to sing with the band, if they had no objections. If they did, they soon changed their minds when they heard her. Voice of an angel, even singing this stuff.”
“Was?” I commented, picking up on Norwood’s choice of words. “You said, she was a singer.”
A shadow passed over Norwood’s face. “Is a singer,” he corrected himself. “It’s just that…” He paused, searching my face, as if he was unsure he could trust me.
“Please, Albert, go on,” prompted Holmes.
“She’s gone missing, Dr Watson. Just yesterday it was. I don’t like it. Marcus won’t tell me what happened, and he won’t go to the police neither.”
“The police?” I repeated. “So her disappearance is suspicious?”
“That’s why I called on Mr Holmes, you see. One of my mates saw the two of you at the Palace the other night. Recognised you both and mentioned it to me. I thought, if anyone could help it’s him. What did you use to say in your stories, Dr Watson – The world’s greatest consulting detective?” Norwood turned to my friend. “I haven’t got much, Mr Holmes, you know that, but what I have is yours if you can get to the bottom of this. Marcus is mixed up in something. I just know he is.”
Holmes raised a hand at the mention of payment. “Albert, know two things. First of all, I am retired and so no money need change hands; and even if I were still in practice, the service you have done for me over the years more than covers the cost of any investigation. More importantly, will your nephew see us?” Holmes looked around the still busy club. “The doorman told me that there has been little sign of him all evening.”
“He’s holed up in his office,” Norwood said. “Hasn’t come out all day. I wouldn’t have even known any of this had happened if Annabel hadn’t come to see me.”
“Annabel?”
Norwood looked over to a pretty girl serving drinks behind the bar wearing a close-fitting cocktail dress and feathers in her hair. She glanced up, catching his eye, and gave the old man a sad smile.
“She’s a good girl. Ada hoped that her and Marcus might get together, before Elsie arrived on the scene, that is. She’s worried about him; has been for a while. Thinks he’s getting in over his head.”
“Getting into what?” I asked.
“A question I suggest we ask the young man in question,” said Holmes, rising to his feet. “Which way is young Mr Norwood’s office?”
* * *
“Marcus?”
Annabel had let us past the bar with a nod, Norwood leading us down a short gloomy corridor to a heavy wooden door.
He rapped on the wood for a second time.
“It’s your uncle. Open up, lad.”
“I’m busy,” came a muffled reply.
“Annabel is about to close up out here,” Norwood said. “By herself. You should be helping her.”
There was no answer. Holmes and I exchanged a look, before Norwood took matters into his own hands and turned the handle of the door. It wasn’t locked, and swung open to reveal a young man sitting behind a desk. He jumped at the intrusion and leapt to his feet, knocking from the desk a bottle that smashed on the floor.
“What are you doing?” he objected. “I told you I was busy!”
“Busy losing yourself in a bottle!” Norwood said, striding forward. Holmes and I stepped into the office, keeping a respectful distance. The windowless room was small and airless, a solitary filing cabinet sitting beside the desk. There was no mistaking the stink of gin.
“You have no right, barging in here,” the young man blustered, before focusing on his other unwanted guests. “And who are you?”
Holmes took that opportunity to step forward. “I am an old friend of your uncle,” he began, before the young man cut him off.
“Then I hope you enjoyed your evening in the Mallard. Drinks are on the house.”
His tone was anything but cordial. Holmes continued, unperturbed.
“My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my associate, Dr Watson.”
The flush in Marcus Norwood’s cheeks disappeared in an instant.
“The detective fellow, from the stories,” he mumbled, his eyes wide.
“One and the same,” Holmes confirmed. “Your uncle was concerned about recent… events and asked for my advice.”
“My uncle should keep his beak out,” Marcus Norwood snapped, swaying slightly on his feet, both from inebriation and fury. “No offence to you, gentlemen.”
“None taken,” my friend responded. “And I understand that you are under a great deal of pressure today.”
“I suppose your famous powers of deduction tell you that,” Norwood slurred, only to receive an admonishment from his uncle. Holmes raised a hand to show that, once again, he had taken no insult.
“Albert has told us what has happened, or at least as much as he knows.”
“And Mr Holmes and Dr Watson have come to help, Marcus,” Norwood added. “If you’d let them.”
Holmes took a step closer. “I realise this is hard for you. You are a proud man, and I would suggest that your anger is in fact directed towards yourself, rather than your uncle. You wanted today to be just like any other, so that the world would not know what has happened. Business as usual at the Mallard.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do I not? You have been unable to concentrate from the moment you woke today, and you enjoyed very little of the eggs Benedict you ate for luncheon.”
“How did you—”
“I count no less than four shaving nicks on your chin, alongside a patch of stubble you missed beneath your right ear. As for luncheon, there is a stain on your shirtfront where you spilt hollandaise sauce.”
Marcus Norwood collapsed into his chair and clasped his face in his hands.
“I don’t know what to do. If they hurt her…”
Norwood was beside his nephew in a shot, crouching beside him. “Hurt Elsie, you mean? Annabel said that she’d gone, but—”
Marcus Norwood looked up at his uncle. “But she didn’t tell you how.”
Now it was my turn to step forward. “Mr Norwood, you said ‘if they hurt her’. Has someone taken Miss Kadwell? Is that what has happened?”
The young man merely stared at me, as if pleading for someone to make the decision for him. Albert Norwood did exactly that.
“Enough games, lad. We need to know the truth.”
* * *
Resigned to having matters taken out of his hands, the young club owner led us to Elsie’s dressing room on th
e first floor, opening the door with a key he kept in his waistcoat pocket.
Holmes wasted no time before sweeping into the room. The place was a mess. A deep purple chaise longue was on its side, and clothes rails were toppled over, spilling costumes across the polished floorboards. The dressing table was bare, its contents strewn over an oval red rug, the chair on its back, a long silk scarf draped over its seat where it had fallen.
“It appears there was a struggle,” I said, following him in, although Holmes ignored my comment.
“And this is exactly how you found it?” the detective asked.
Marcus Norwood nodded. “I couldn’t bring myself to tidy up. Not yet.”
Holmes crouched down beside the girl’s scattered possessions. There was a wooden wig stand, its black hairpiece tossed halfway across the room, alongside all manner of make-up palettes and lipsticks. Careful not to cut himself, Holmes picked up a framed photograph, the broken glass falling to the floor. “Is this Miss Kadwell?”
Norwood shook his head. “That’s her sister, Beatrice.”
“I didn’t think Elsie had any family,” Albert Norwood admitted. “Have you told her what’s happened?”
“Bea’s no longer with us,” his nephew explained. “She passed away a year ago.”
I shook my head at the news. Such tragic siblings. One dead and the other abducted.
Holmes had spotted something else, picking up a circular yellow box, just one of several similarly shaped containers that were dotted among the dressing table detritus.
“More make-up?” I asked as Holmes rose to his feet again.
“I’m afraid not,” he replied, removing the cardboard lid.
“Empty,” I said, peering inside.
“Not entirely,” Holmes said. “Perhaps you should consider reading glasses, Watson. Observe.”
Holmes ran his index finger around the inside of the box, scooping up traces of unmistakable white powder.
I sighed, meeting his knowing gaze. “Cocaine.”
“It can’t be,” Marcus Norwood insisted. “Elsie’s no snow-sniffer. She won’t touch the stuff, not since…” He caught himself, glancing nervously between Holmes and myself before changing tack. “I won’t have it in my club. I know what the other places round here are like, full of that rubbish, but not here. Not in the Mallard.”
I looked at Holmes, but my friend’s eyes were set on the young man. He knew my thoughts on the drug. I had long been a campaigner for the criminalisation of the substance, and had even managed to wean Holmes off its use some two decades before, thank God.
However, it had taken the war for my views to become widespread. Moved by the suffering of our troops in France, well-meaning relatives had sent gelatine sheets laced with morphine and cocaine to the front, anything to make life in the trenches more bearable. The only result had been that thousands of men returned home with deep addictions. Soho had become a hotbed for the habit, supplying the drug of choice for London’s bright young things, both male and female.
When the possession of both cocaine and opium became a criminal offence in 1916, I had been the first to cheer.
It was clear that the younger Norwood shared my repulsion, no doubt having seen the ravages of the drug at home and abroad. To discover in such a way that his missing sweetheart was a user must have been a terrible shock.
“There’s no hairbrush,” Holmes said, abruptly changing the subject.
Marcus Norwood’s dismay gave way to puzzlement. “I beg your pardon?”
“We have foundation, rouge and lipstick, not to mention numerous false eyelashes and bottles of perfume,” Holmes explained, surreptitiously pocketing the yellow box, an action that made me nervous. There may have been only a few traces of the drug still in the container, but I was not keen for Holmes to have even the smallest amount of cocaine in his possession, even after all this time.
“And yet,” continued the detective, “nothing for a young lady to comb her hair with. Is that not curious?”
“Not really,” said Norwood, stepping over the chair to reach the dressing table. “Elsie keeps her hairbrush in her drawer. It’s one of her most treasured possessions, a present from Bea before, you know…”
The club owner opened the drawer and stared in disbelief. “It’s gone. It’s usually right here.” He started to rummage through the contents, but could find no sign of the brush.
“Could it have been stolen,” I suggested, “by whoever kidnapped Miss Kadwell?”
“Kidnapped?” Marcus Norwood repeated mournfully, abandoning his search.
“That is what we’re looking at, isn’t it, Holmes?”
Holmes surveyed the scene. “There are certainly signs of a struggle.”
“But who would do such a thing?” Albert asked. “Marcus, who on earth would want to hurt Elsie?”
“A good question,” came a gruff voice from the door.
CHAPTER THREE
PRITCHARD
Standing in the doorway was a large man, nearly as broad as he was tall, with dark hair slicked to the side and narrow eyes that would scarcely have looked out of place on a ferret. The newcomer positively radiated arrogance, from his hands thrust into sharply creased trousers to his furiously masticating chin. Of all the habits brought back from the front, chewing gum was, in my mind, almost as unwelcome as reliance on cocaine. I understood why it had become popular in the trenches, helping Tommies focus during long hours of inactivity, but there could be no reason for the undignified custom to continue on the streets of London.
“Mr P-Pritchard,” Marcus stammered, springing forward to greet the man. “I’m afraid we’re closed.”
Pritchard positively sneered. “Not to me, I hope.”
Marcus attempted a weak smile. “The law is the law, sir.”
“So, you have been listening to me, then,” Pritchard commented, strolling into the room uninvited. His hooded eyes surveyed the devastation. “Quite a mess you’ve got here, Mr Norwood. Whatever has been happening?”
“A good question, Mr Pritchard,” Holmes interjected, moving forward to stand beside Marcus Norwood. “And perhaps one you would be able to help answer, in your professional capacity, of course.”
“Professional capacity?” repeated Pritchard, his brow furrowing.
“You are a police detective, are you not?” Holmes asked.
“And how would you know that, sir?”
“The slight bulge in your waistcoat pocket,” Holmes informed him, prompting Pritchard to subconsciously pat his side. “A Metropolitan Police whistle, if I am not very much mistaken.”
Bemused, Pritchard pulled out a cylindrical whistle attached to a silver chain, absently turning the article over in his hand.
“It is indeed, Mr…?”
“Holmes,” my friend replied. “Sherlock Holmes, and I congratulate you on its upkeep. The 1905 De Courcy if I am correct, complete with an integrated penknife. Most ingenious. No wonder you still wear it, as do many of your colleagues in the plain-clothes division; a reminder of their days in uniform.”
Throughout Holmes’s explanation, Pritchard’s eyes had been fixed on the detective. “I see your reputation is well deserved, Mr Holmes, although I’m surprised that Norwood chose to employ your services rather than come straight to me.”
“You know each other then?” asked Holmes, looking between the two men.
“We’re old friends,” Pritchard confirmed.
“Did you serve together in the war?”
Pritchard shook his head. “No, we didn’t have that honour. We met when the Mallard opened its doors, isn’t that right, Marcus?”
Holmes gave the club owner no time to reply.
“Still, you were at the front, were you not, Mr Pritchard? I can tell from the way you hold yourself that you were a military man, ramrod straight like my colleague Dr Watson here. I must say, Doctor, it’s agreeable to see our brave servicemen prosper, is it not?”
I nodded, confused as to where the line of question
ing was heading. Pritchard was obviously wondering the same thing.
“Perhaps you can let me know what has been happening here, Mr Holmes,” the policeman prompted, bringing Holmes back to the matter in hand.
“It would be my pleasure,” Holmes said, stepping back to grant Pritchard full access to the sorry scene. “Mr Norwood returned to the Mallard yesterday to find Miss Kadwell missing and, as you can see, her dressing room in disarray.”
“There’s been a struggle,” Pritchard commented.
“Evidently. But here is the curious thing. Miss Kadwell’s hairbrush has also vanished, the only thing that appears to have been taken, other than the young lady herself.”
“That is curious.”
“I knew you would think so. A gift from her sister, Bronwyn.”
“Beatrice,” I interjected, surprised that Holmes would slip up on such a detail. It was quite unlike him.
My friend turned and positively glowered at me. I was hardly to blame that his extraordinary memory was finally betraying him. It comes to all of us, even the great Sherlock Holmes.
“Thank you, Watson. You are quite correct.” He turned back to Pritchard. “What do you make of the hairbrush’s disappearance?”
Pritchard continued to chew his gum. “Was it valuable?”
“I am not sure,” Holmes admitted. “Mr Norwood?”
Marcus Norwood seemed lost in a dream. “Oh, I don’t think so,” he finally answered when prompted again by Holmes. “It was silver-plated, I think, and engraved with Elsie’s initials, but had no real value.”
“Except that of sentiment,” Holmes suggested.
“As it came from her late sister?” Pritchard asked.
“Quite so. I don’t suppose Miss Kadwell ever showed you the brush in question?”
Pritchard’s frown returned. “Me? No. I barely knew the young lady, other than seeing her in the club downstairs.”
“So, you’ve never visited her dressing room before?”
Pritchard’s lips narrowed. “Why would I?”
Holmes raised a placating hand. “I merely assumed that, as you came looking for us—”
“I was sent up by the girl behind the bar,” Pritchard said, obviously unhappy at having to explain himself. “She said I could find Mr Norwood up here.”
