Holmes casually waved Johnson to a seat whilst handing him a large tumbler of whisky, the contents of which Johnson greedily devoured.
‘Now I am at your service Mister ’olmes.’ Johnson declared while licking his lips longingly. Taking the hint, Holmes readily recharged Johnson’s glass, and then placed Lestrade’s list in Johnson’s vacant hand.
Treating the second glass with greater respect, Johnson only sipped at it occasionally while carefully studying the list. Eventually he declared: ‘Well now, a most han’som collection of treasure ’ere, I must say!’ Then after a moment’s thought, Johnson eyed up Holmes quizzically, and added: ‘’ere, I ’ope you don’t think that I ’ad anything to do with these, if that’s why you brought me ’ere. Even though they collared the lot, you still suspect old “Porky”, eh?’
By now Johnson had agitated himself to such an extent that he put his glass down, rose from his chair, and began making for the door. With a leap Holmes straddled the settee, and was able to reach Johnson before his hand had even touched the handle of the door. With his most charming smile and a reassuring pat on the back, Holmes managed to calm Johnson’s fears, and he in turn resumed his seat apologetically.
‘Now to business,’ Holmes began, standing over Johnson with his finger tips pressed together before him. ‘No doubt you will have noticed that in each case the arresting officer in question was the redoubtable Detective Constable Parkes. Now, I am convinced that there must be one factor, other than he, that connects each of the cases. I am hoping that you, with your most singular, and extensive knowledge of such things, can supply me with that connection.’
‘Well I will certainly do me best, Mister ’olmes.’ Johnson replied, taking up the list once more. He read slowly through it once again, only this time we could hear him dismiss certain possibilities as he considered each one in turn. The location of the properties in question; the size, and contents of the haul procured by each thief; the manner of achieving access; even the events leading up to each arrest. Every dismissal saw Johnson dejectedly shake his head, and Holmes’s agitation increase. He began pacing before the fireplace, casting furtive glances towards Johnson every time he went past him.
‘Blimey, Mister ’olmes!’ Johnson suddenly exclaimed. ‘I must be going soft in the ’ead for not realizing it sooner. It must be the fence. I am almost certain that Silas Morrison was the one that moved the stuff every time.’
‘I think I take your meaning,’ Holmes replied. ‘Is there any chance you might know where this individual could be found?’
‘There is a certain establishment in the East End where ’e, and ’is, shall we say, associates meet most evenings. I’ve been ’ere too long for me own good!’ Shinwell suddenly exclaimed leaping from his seat. ‘I’ll send word to you tomorrow evening, but please, for all our sakes, be careful, and discreet.’
‘I can assure you, I am more than adept at blending in,’ Holmes replied.’ You will hardly know I am there at all. Goodnight to you, Johnson!’
Johnson doffed his cap to us both, and was gone.
‘A most satisfactory conclusion to the day, would you not agree, Watson?’ Holmes asked, once the door had closed behind our hastily departing guest.
‘Most certainly, although the situation of Constable Parkes seems somewhat darker when seen through our latest discoveries. It would seem that Parkes was closing in on Morrison, and his gang, and he in turn has incommoded Parkes. Or worse perhaps.’ I suggested thoughtfully.
Holmes nodded solemnly, and lit his old clay pipe.
‘Will you not now retire, Holmes?’ I asked. Then I observed that familiar faraway look come over Holmes’s steely grey eyes, and I already knew my answer.
‘Best get some sleep, old fellow. An early morning trip to Islington will be the order of the day tomorrow.’ He spoke these last words absently, as he sank slowly into his chair. He drew his bony knees up to his chin, and sank into a deep chain of thought by the glowing embers of the dying fire. I shook my head as I made my way slowly, and quietly, to my room knowing full well that, despite his late night vigil, Holmes would seem the fresher of us, come the morning.
To say that my surmise of the previous night was borne out by Holmes’s appearance and mood the following morning, would be to understate in the extreme. Unusually, he was most jaunty as our hansom rattled us towards London’s more northern suburbs, although he would not be drawn on the subject of Constable Parkes’s disappearance, either during our hasty breakfast, or during the course of our journey to Islington.
Although he had kept the nature of our visit a complete mystery, I was in little doubt that the address Lestrade had furnished us with, in relation to Parkes’s lodging house, was our current destination. I could not help noticing that the closer we came to our destination, the more steadily decreased the size, and quality of the dwellings we passed. By the time we reached Conway Avenue, they had become dark, gloomy terraced houses, badly kept up, and of miniscule proportions.
‘What a ghastly place!’ I declared, depressed by our surroundings. Holmes merely grunted as he alighted from the cab and called for the driver to wait for us; we crossed the avenue to number 41. The appearance of the house was certainly no worse than that of its neighbours, indeed, it bore all the signs of having received a coat of paint within the last three years.
There was an immediate response to our knock on the street door, and a particularly short, elderly woman opened it, and greeted us with a cheery smile. Her hair was short, and quite white, while her steel rimmed spectacles seemed to lend a friendly sparkle to her eyes. The grime on her flowered pinafore indicated food preparation.
‘Good morning, Mrs Mullins? My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend, and associate Dr Watson.’ Holmes declared in his most charming tone.
‘Oh do come in, gentlemen. The inspector did say you might be paying us a call.’ Mrs Mullins invited.
The ill-lit hallway we were led into held an awful feeling of dampness, and decay that was all pervading. Yet despite this, what may best be described as squalor, one was equally aware of the diligent efforts of Mrs Mullins, in maintaining a level of cleanliness.
‘Before showing you up to Constable Parkes’s room, might I offer you both a cup of tea in the scullery? It should not take long for the kettle to boil again.’ Mrs Mullins offered.
Displaying a seldom seen consideration and politeness, Holmes nodded his assent, and we were shown into an equally squalid little room, where further signs of Mrs Mullins’s simple culinary efforts were evident. Over a surprisingly good, strong cup of tea, Holmes began questioning Mrs Mullins regarding the disappearance of her lodger.
‘I am afraid I can add very little to what you already know, Mr Holmes.’ Mrs Mullins responded. ‘It was only upon the inspector’s visit here yesterday evening that I became aware of there being anything amiss myself.’
‘Did it not seem strange to you that Parkes should desert his lodgings for three whole days and nights?’ Holmes asked.
‘No, not at all. You see, when he first came to me Constable Parkes explained that his line of work would require him to work at some very strange hours, sometimes for entire nights. Therefore, I made an exception in his case, and gave him my spare latch key, something I have never done before. He is such a pleasant young man, and after all, he is a policeman.’
‘Yes of course, most understandable. Yet how can you be so certain that he never returned to his room, say in the middle of the night? After all I am certain that you retire at a reasonable hour,’ Holmes inquired.
‘Indeed I do, Mr Holmes.’ Mrs Mullins replied. ‘Unfortunately, I am a very light sleeper, and I can assure you the sound of the street door opening and closing would awaken me in an instant. I am sure the poor, young man has been at work every night of late.’
Holmes sat in silent thought for a moment, while he considered the landlady’s last comment. ‘Perhaps an examination of Parkes’s bedroom will shed some light on the situation. If, perha
ps you would lead the way, Mrs Mullins?’ Holmes suggested rising suddenly.
Clearly taken aback by Holmes’s abruptness, Mrs Mullins hesitated for a moment before slowly rising and leading us back to the front hall. ‘A moment please while I get us an oil lamp to light the way.’
‘Most suggestive, would you not say?’ Holmes whispered suddenly once Mrs Mullins had moved away. ‘Especially when you consider that the duty roster Lestrade kindly enclosed with the list, clearly shows that Parkes has only been on day duty this past week!’
‘I will admit this new information confirms your conjecture that Parkes’s disappearance is unconnected to Daxer and his confederates. Officially he was last on night duty before Daxer was even in the country! Though I am at a loss as to what it all means.’ I replied, in the certain knowledge that my friend’s grasp of the situation was more astute than my own. At that, our hostess reappeared with the necessary illumination and began leading us up quite the narrowest and most precarious staircase I had ever encountered. I admit to feeling much relieved at having safely negotiated it. We were then led down a dark corridor towards the back of the house, and the solitary door at its end.
The single gas light within, gave out barely sufficient light for Holmes’s purposes, so he placed the oil lamp strategically on the bedside table, and was then able to begin his research of the room.
The small, uncomfortable looking bed had been neatly made, and not slept in, Mrs Mullins assured us, for many nights. Save the oil lamp, the table at its side was totally bare, and the room’s only chair revealed nothing besides its upholstery, through badly worn patches in its cover.
Holmes grunted irritably at the empty drawers in the tall-boy, and was equally disappointed at the meagre contents of the clothes cupboard, a plain, shabby brown suit. He searched thoroughly in each pocket of this, and finally slammed the cupboard door shut, impatiently.
‘Were you not aware that your lodger had removed all his chattels?!’ Holmes asked, glaring at Mrs Mullins.
‘No indeed, sir.’ She replied. ‘I had no idea. Mind you, sir, I do not think he had that much with him to begin with.’
‘More than a single suit I am sure, though.’ Then with a finger to his lips, Holmes motioned us both to silence. With his hands on his hips and a single finger from each hand protruding into the top pockets of his waistcoat, Holmes bent his neck, and began surveying the floor, his last recourse for a clue.
He stood in this fashion for a few moments, his intense eyes almost protruding from their sockets, as he continued his search. Suddenly his eyes sparkled briefly, a triumphant smile flashed momentarily, and was then gone. I tried to follow the direction of his gaze, but could see nothing save an old, moth-eaten Chinese rug, surrounded by badly scarred floorboards. A barely audible cry, in fact no more than a brief exhalation of air, announced Holmes’s pleasure, and, in an instant, he was laying on his stomach, prostrate on the floor.
Only when his right hand went towards it, did I become aware of a small pile of dust particles, which would surely have been ignored by a lesser mortal. He gathered a small sample of the dust in his left hand, while his right forefinger sifted through it carefully. Returning the dust to the floor Holmes bent his head upwards to Mrs Mullins.
‘Were you aware of your lodger’s penchant for expensive cigars? This is the remains of one from the Dutch East Indies, and is not so easy to obtain.’ The tone of this question indicated that any answer would be an irrelevance. Mrs Mullins, obviously surprised at the question, replied nonetheless.
‘No, sir. On the rare occasion I saw him smoking, it was usually a cheap cigarette.’
Ignoring the answer, Holmes began getting up once more from the floor when something, even more invisible to me than his previous discovery, apparently caught his eye.
Shuffling across the floor, like some dexterous lizard, he reached his find, and after a brief examination of this, placed it in a small envelope he brought out from his inside breast pocket. He was on his feet again in an instant, passing no comment as to the nature of his discovery and dusted himself down. Hurrying towards the door, he paused briefly to address Mrs Mullins.
‘Mrs Mullins, my advice to you would be to advertise a vacancy in your house with immediate effect, for I am now in no doubt that your previous lodger will not be returning. Come, Watson!’
I quietly apologised for my friend’s brusqueness and thanked Mrs Mullins for her indulgence, for by now Holmes was already in the street.
‘Watson, if Shinwell Johnson proves as reliable tonight as he has been in the past, I think I can look forward to encountering a most singular and brilliant criminal mind before the night is out,’ Holmes cheerfully announced once we had rejoined our cab. However, he proved most reticent on the subject for the remainder of our homeward journey, and I felt as shut out from the innermost workings of his mind as ever.
*
For an hour upon our return, Holmes entertained us with a most delightful rendition of Beethoven’s violin concerto, and he seemed able to shut out all thoughts of Parkes’s mysterious disappearance, and the anticipated message from Shinwell Johnson. However as the evening wore on, he became increasingly fretful at Shinwell’s lack of communication. He lit cigarette after cigarette, and seemed almost to chew them up as he ceaselessly prowled about our rooms.
‘I feel so close to success, and yet, if Johnson fails to locate this fence, Morrison, all my other work, and deductions will become worthless and futile!’ Holmes bemoaned.
‘I am sure he will not disappoint you. Johnson seems well able to take care of himself, so I am certain no misfortune has overtaken him. If the information is to be had, I am sure he will provide you with it.’ My inept attempts at consolation seemed to fall on deaf ears. It was now ten o’clock and there was not much conviction in my voice.
‘Yes, but when?!’ Holmes exclaimed. He lit another cigarette, and turned to the window from which he gazed intently. He then returned to his chair, crestfallen and apparently exhausted from the expenditure of so much nervous energy. However, within a few minutes he was back on his feet again, rubbing his hands together gleefully. A soft, almost inaudible knock on the front door, had alerted him to the presence of a visitor, before I could even distinguish it. Mrs Hudson having already retired for the night, I was despatched with a wave of the hand to attend the door, while Holmes waited in happy anticipation.
I opened the door to a filthy, dishevelled remnant of a man, unshaven, and reeking of stale beer. An almost lost, and buried instinct within him stirred him to doff his patchwork cap to me, and he attempted a toothless grin as he handed me a small, crumpled piece of paper.
‘From Porky.’ He croaked.
I slipped the creature a half-crown, and with the treasured piece of paper safely in my hand, I was glad to close the door on so sad a manifestation.
‘Quickly, Watson! There is not a moment to be lost.’ Holmes called down to me, before I had even glanced at the message myself. I took the stairs two at a stride, and Holmes had snatched the note from my hand before I reached the landing. Bearing the valued note, Holmes disappeared into his room at once, slamming his door shut with a shudder that shook the entire house. So intense was my curiosity that I called out to Holmes through the closed door.
‘For reasons best known to yourself, you seem to attach great importance to Johnson’s message, yet I fail to see why you must go out at so forsaken an hour. Surely the morning would be time enough.’
Suddenly Holmes’s door re-opened, but by only the merest chink, revealing nothing more than the tips of my friend’s sharp features.
‘Watson, Johnson has risked much in getting this information to me. If I betray him now, and, indeed the citizens of our great city, by shirking my responsibilities due to the lateness of the hour, it would be most reprehensible. Rest assured, all will be explained to you upon my return.’
‘You mean I am not to accompany you?!’ I cried, aghast at having my services dismissed in such a fashion.
Holmes’s answer was the hurried re-closing of his door. When he opened it again, a few moments later, the transformation Holmes had undertaken was the most startling he had yet achieved, even, perhaps, surpassing the gnarled, old book peddler he had used to disguise his dramatic return from death in my narrative of The Empty House.
When I beheld him it was hard to believe that my friend still existed beneath the heavy disguise. As with the book peddler, he had taken two or three inches off his height, by means of a subtle bend of his back, and limbs. Clever use of theatrical make-up provided him with three day facial stubble, and a broken nose. An ugly knife scar on his left cheek, and a set of huge black eyebrows made him appear all the more sinister. His attire, a well worn tweed suit with a gaudy coloured waistcoat, a dusty brown bowler worn askance, and a thin, unlit cigarette protruding from a corner of his mouth, completed the effect. He was, every inch, the vicious criminal down on his luck.
‘Gimme’ a light mister.’ Holmes growled in a broad, gravelly cockney accent.
‘Wonderful, my dear Holmes, just wonderful!’ I exclaimed, ‘For all the world, you will certainly not let Johnson down tonight, if, indeed he can recognise you at all,’ Then, remembering his callous dismissal of my services, for the coming night’s work, I added: ‘however, I would have thought my presence tonight might have been of some worth.’
‘My dear fellow, of course it would.’ Holmes replied, reverting to his gentler tones. ‘However, with the best will in the world, you find it somewhat harder than me to blend into the dark and forbidding surroundings I am about to descend into. Shinwell Johnson will be in as much jeopardy as myself, and I should not like to compromise him still further. Besides, should I find myself in difficulties, I am sure Johnson will prove himself a most stalwart ally. I do hope you will still lend me your army revolver?’ He asked, with a consolatory pat on my left shoulder.
‘Of course I will,’ I replied, ‘but do take care.’
‘Ha! Still the ever watchful Watson. I do not expect to return much before breakfast, so you had best retire. Good night!’ That strange, menacing creation of his shot from the room, and I could hear the street door close behind him an instant later.
The Lost Files of Sherlock Holmes Page 15
