“Out boy! Out!” she cried, as she rushed towards the frightened lad.
“Mrs. Hudson! Do not agitate yourself,” intervened Holmes. “This young man is here by my consent. He is a client and should be treated as such. Now run along to your duties, my good woman, and let us have some peace and quiet.”
Sherlock Holmes gave her one of his impish smiles as he took the cup of tea from her hand and gave it to the boy. Mrs. Hudson gave a snort and walked out of the room. My friend directed his attention back to the child, who was taking a cautious sip from the cup.
“Now Master Allen, can you tell us why you are here?” he asked.
“To find the spinning top,” murmured the boy, lowering his head. His voice was affected by a congested nose.
I leaned closer to my companion, who pressed him for clarification.
“What spinning top?” he asked once more. But the boy remained silent.
At that moment, we heard a loud thud and what sounded like a muffled altercation between two individuals, followed by a woman’s voice coming from the staircase.
“Will! Where the devil are you?” she shouted.
I went to the door and opened it. A woman stumbled forward as she caught sight of the boy. Dashing inside, holding a wicker basket in the crook of her arm, she lunged towards him and fell on her knees before taking the boy in her arms.
“Never again! You ain’t runnin’ away like that, never again!” Her remonstrance was harsh, but a slight quiver was perceptible in her voice. The tone she spoke in was tinged with an abundance of concern and love.
“Mrs. Allen, I presume?” said Holmes.
“And who be you?” said the woman, standing back up and holding the boy close to her.
“I am Sherlock Holmes, ma’am. Your son requested my help and came to me seeking assistance.”
“Sir, I ain’t lookin’ for trouble. My boy ran from the market and I only followed in fear, as a mother would. I came to this place after someone saw ’im run in ’ere.” The woman stepped backward, her voice full of agitation. She must have been no more than thirty and, like the boy, presented herself in worn clothes and a shabby appearance.
“I mean no disrespect sirs,” she continued, looking at both of us. “We shall leave you both to your daily business.”
“But the top, ma! And the golden scraps!” broke in the boy. He looked at his mother and pulled her forward.
“Half-a-moment madam,” said Holmes, raising his right hand. “Pray, sit yourself down and let us see what your son is asking for.”
“It ain’t nothing, sir. Honest. Nothing to burden your good selves with.”
Despite her somewhat less than charming appearance, and clearly being a part of that unfortunate section of society from which the destitute are found suffering every day, Mrs. Allen spoke with as much politeness as she could muster. She seemed most embarrassed, and troubled at having to drag her son away from the lodgings of someone she considered as being far superior to her, rather than as an equal human being.
“Madam, please,” reciprocated Holmes with a smile, offering her a seat on the sofa.
The woman seemed to calm herself and took the offer. Her son sat beside her, his head bowed once again. Holmes and I settled in the armchairs opposite our visitors and waited.
“Now, Mrs. Allen,” said Holmes after a few moments of silence, “would you be so kind as to shine some light on this situation so that I can offer my services to you and your son?”
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir. The truth is, I ain’t got any money for your help.” Her voice broke with emotion as she stifled a whine.
“None of that, Mrs. Allen,” said Holmes in a calming voice. “What I do, I do for the sake of the mind, and the pleasure of the art. Now please, do let us know what your son is seeking.”
I cannot claim to have ever witnessed my companion opening up to the more fragile part of human nature. He was still the implacable, unrelenting machine. Yet he understood the behaviour of others and, while he kept to himself whatever emotion he felt, he treated the situation and the client before him with respect.
Mrs. Allen shifted with unease. She looked at her son and then at Holmes.
“I would think this all started but two days ago,” she said. “You see, I peddle some fruit and local produce in the old market at Church Street in Lisson Grove. I help out a penny-pinching shopkeeper in Frampton Street for the odd shilling every now and then. ’Twas but ’alf an hour ago when I saw Will here runnin’ away. So I followed him. I came straight ’ere from the market, with the basket and all.” She lifted the basket from the side to demonstrate her point.
* * *
I hope the reader will forgive me at this stage. Mrs. Allen told us this, and much more. But I fear the account would go amiss if I were to continue presenting it entirely in her own words. I am therefore providing a brief summary of what more she told us, along with a few interjections of her own.
As Mrs. Allen explained, two days prior to bringing her agitated disposition to 221b, she had taken some items from the shop in Frampton Street, placed them in the basket, and headed to the market, hoping to assist her employer in selling the produce. She took young Will with her, as she always did, in order to keep an eye on him.
Throughout her account, no word was spoken about a husband, and Sherlock Holmes did not inquire any further. He remained seated in his armchair, motionless, yet aware of every detail - mundane or otherwise - that the woman recalled.
She had found her usual corner against the building which lined the north side of the street, and along which the market stalls were set up. Having emptied the contents of her basket onto a rag on the ground, her voice competed with the rest of the other costermongers in order to attract the attention of passersby.
“My boy ’ere, he went up and down the street with that... plaything-” Mrs. Allen faltered. “This spinning top made o’ wood. Always in his hands, ’twas. He must ’ave pulled at it too strong, Will did, for it hit a honey jar I ’ad placed on the ground. It was batty-fanged, with glass all over the place and the honey too!”
Mrs. Allen bemoaned the fact that she had lost such a costly item without earning any money for it. She scolded young Will for his carelessness, while he in vain sought the missing toy amid the bustle of the market. The son’s distress at the loss of his spinning top had gone unnoticed by the mother. She feared her employer’s wrath and dismissal from work when he eventually found out that she had lost him a good shilling.
“I ’aven’t ’ad the courage to tell ’im yet. When I do, I ain’t got nothing left to ’elp me and my son no more,” concluded the woman, with a perceptible sob. “Will ’as been scouring the entire street for the spinning top, even after the market’s no more at the end of the day. He says to me he found naught but broken glass and golden specks on the ground where the jar lay shattered.”
“What are these specks of which your son speaks?” I asked, leaning forward while glancing at the boy.
“Tripe!” she cried. “Pardon me sir. He keeps repeatin’ things like that as make no sense.” Mrs. Allen glanced at her son with an admonishing look, before directing her damp eyes back to my companion.
“So you see sir, my Will should ’ave ’ad no business disturbing you. The matter is no concern for so distinguished a gentleman.”
Sherlock Holmes remained seated, immovable.
I thought the whole affair rather superfluous and unimportant in the vast web of criminality and human distress which sought solace in my friend’s abilities. The broken honey jar and the missing top were a trivial situation, were it not for the clear distress exhibited by the woman for the wellbeing of her child. At the same time, I feared that London’s greatest consulting detective, consumed by more pressing matters, would react in an insensitive manner.
As these thoughts came to
my mind, Holmes inhaled deeply. A discernible frown appeared across his forehead. He leaned forward, placing the tips of his hands against each other, while gazing vacantly before him.
“The problem presented is thus twofold,” he began, his voice deep and calm as if in profound thought. “A child’s toy vanishes, and a mother is in distress over the future of her employment. Superb! And all the while the boy refers to the strange presence of golden particles in the street. Say no more! We must settle the riddle of the spinning top, whilst safeguarding your reputation as a good woman, Mrs. Allen,” he concluded with a smile.
Holmes rose from his chair and took down his coat from the hanger by the door. The woman gently placed her arms around her son, looking up at the consulting detective in earnest.
“You offer your time to help us, sir?” she enquired.
“Absolutely, ma’am. A pleasant distraction. Come, let us head to Church Street Market this instant and see to your troubles. Watson!” he cried, as he left the room and headed downstairs to call a cab.
* * *
I was still pondering the odd and unexpected behaviour of my companion when we finally arrived at our destination. It was early afternoon and the market had almost dissolved into nothing, leaving the street in a tranquil murmur. A few hawkers remained scattered along the way as an occasional voice rose above the serene atmosphere. The street itself was littered with puddles of water, remnants of trampled vegetables, and the odd wooden crate left behind in haste. Muddy newspaper scraps flew past us in the cold breeze which swept from the southwest.
We followed the woman and the boy as they led us to the spot where their troubles had begun.
“This ’ere is the place where I stood that day.” She pointed at a shabby corner flanked by two mouldy brick walls that emerged from a decrepit building stretching all along Church Street. There were fragments of broken glass scattered on the cobblestones where the jar must have shattered, along with drops of honey now turned dark and dry.
“Are these the golden specks you spoke about, Will?” I crouched down beside him, pointing at the honey stains on the ground. He shook his head and pointed a yard or two further away. Holmes was soon bending over to where Master Allen had indicated. He extracted his magnifying lens and got down on his knees, bringing his head in close proximity to the rough cobblestones.
“Halloa! What is this?” he uttered moments later. He bent even closer to the ground, adjusting the distance of the lens to get a clearer view of what had caught his attention. Whatever it was, it was surely miniscule.
“Watson, come! Behold the mystery of the golden specks.” He tugged at my trouser leg, with his gaze still fixed on the object of interest. I got down and crouched beside him.
“What is it?” I asked, still unable to discern what had caught my companion’s eye.
“A most curious species. Fascinating, and yet a scourge to the city inhabitant. Look here!” He gave me the lens and pointed at a few particles with an unusual yellow hue to them. As I leaned closer, the crooked outline of a body, from which protruded several distinct legs and antennae, appeared.
“Ants!” I cried, unable to contain the sense of amusement that swelled within me.
“Perfectly sound analysis Watson,” said Holmes, “and judging by the size and shape of the thorax and abdomen, the placement of the two nodes, and the overall colour, I would say we have a fine specimen of Pharaoh ants. Your son has keen observation, Mrs. Allen,” he said, turning towards the woman.
“But what has this got to do with the boy’s spinning top?” I asked.
“Everything, my good Doctor.” Holmes took back his lens and glanced again at the dead insects, some of which lay scattered in several groups. “Look at the pattern formations of the ants as they are surrounding the hardened honey stains. They came out to feed.”
Holmes rose to his feet and inspected the surrounding area until he had walked several yards away to the northwest from the initial spot, clearly having found a clue of sorts.
“There are several more such ants lying dead at certain intervals in this direction, and they all seem to point back towards the broken jar. No doubt they came out, foraging for food, before being attracted by the fragrant scent of the honey. Alas! The cold proved too much for some of them, it seems.” He paused for a moment, putting his lens back in his coat pocket and looking at the shattered glass, before turning towards the woman.
“Mrs. Allen, would you happen to have another jar of honey in that basket?” he asked. She looked at him in a somewhat confused manner, before giving a slow nod.
“Excellent! May I kindly purchase such a jar?” Holmes fumbled in his trouser pockets before extracting a few coins and placing them in the bewildered woman’s hand. She handed over the honey, before exclaiming in surprise.
“‘Tis too much, sir. There’s twice the shillings for one jar,” protested Mrs. Allen, extending the palm of her right hand where the coins had been laid.
“I’m sure I counted correctly,” said Holmes, with a slight grin.
“Thank’ee, sir!” replied the woman after a moment’s hesitation. “Most generous of you,” she added, with some emotion.
“Now, onto the mystery itself.” Holmes patted the boy on the shoulder as he stood staring at the broken glass with a disheartened expression. My friend leaned down and whispered something in his ear, before handing him the honey jar. Will Allen ran off in the direction Holmes had surveyed a few minutes earlier, leaving a trail of honey droplets as he went along almost halfway up the street.
“What is the meaning of all this,” I asked Holmes, as the boy returned.
“Hush, Watson. Let us allow Nature to take its course and show us the way.”
Sherlock Holmes advised us to leave the place and meet again at that spot later in the afternoon. I confess that I failed to grasp how all this could lead to any fruitful resolution. This sentiment seemed also expressed by Mrs. Allen and her son. Yet my friend was adamant about revealing everything at the appropriate moment and, given the circumstances, we followed his instructions.
* * *
I returned to Baker Street with Holmes, somewhat disenchanted by the whole affair. What followed were the longest two hours I could have experienced. I sat listening to my friend ruminating on a few other pending cases, while he concluded one or two more in the comfort of the sitting-room. Eager as I was to learn more about his thoughts behind Mrs. Allen’s honey jar, not once did he delve into the subject.
I have often remarked how fervent and dedicated he could become on a case, and yet he was equally able to completely disengage himself from it when the time arose. Such was his behaviour in this instance.
Finally, when the clock hands had crawled past four o’clock, we left our lodgings and headed back to Church Street.
* * *
When we arrived, the sun had started to dip behind the rooftops, and an even cooler breeze swept through the streets. The marketplace had turned desolate and the whole atmosphere presented itself as grey and dreary. Other than ourselves, no one else seemed to be around, as if the nearby inhabitants had long shunned that dismal place once evening began to settle.
We were soon joined by a concerned Mrs. Allen, while young Will followed in her trail, downcast and altogether forlorn.
“Excellent. We can now proceed with our investigation,” said Holmes, with the slightest flicker of excitement.
Once again, he took out the magnifying lens from his coat and walked back towards the glass fragments. From there, he worked his way along the honey droplets which led outwards along the street. With his back bent, guiding his lens with purpose along the cobblestones and crooked pavement, we followed him as he furnished us with his process of investigation.
“It was rather superficial, but the combination of spilt honey, Pharaoh ants, and a missing plaything was too alluring
not to even attempt a little experiment. Halloa!” he exclaimed, halting after a few strides. “The golden trail reveals itself to us at last,” he added, bending down.
“With the force of the spinning top having shattered the glass jar, it was conceivable that traces of honey must have landed on the toy. The presence of the insect specimen was an obvious indication that they had emerged from some nest to forage, following the scent of the honey. That was but two days ago.” He rose to his feet and pointed towards the ground. Even in the dim light and lacking the aid of a lens, a movement like the slow trickle of a stream was perceptible. Upon closer inspection, it was evident that hundreds of ants were passing to and fro in a long procession to hunt for the fresh supply of honey that had been placed there earlier. Their light yellowish bodies truly gave the impression of an unbroken golden ribbon or chain that emerged from somewhere nearby.
“Having lured the rest of the colony workers, it was indisputable to the simplest of hypotheses, that their trail would lead us to the spinning top itself. Ah!” Holmes stopped short and knelt to the ground. We were several yards away from Mrs. Allen’s hawker spot and a small rusted iron grate, serving as a drain gutter, was tucked in between the pavement and the cobblestones marking the edge of the street. From that direction, the majority of the ants seemed to emerge for the hunt and return with replenished supplies.
Holmes reached out his hand to the grate and tugged hard.
He pulled out a grimy spinning top which had been lodged between two of the grate bars, concealed from anyone attempting to look for it. My friend handed it over to young Will, whose face lit up in delight at the sight of it. He took it in his hands and wiped off the muck on his tattered shirt.
“Thank’ee sir,” he said. He looked up in glee at his mother who, in turn, repeatedly expressed her gratitude, much to the irritation of my friend. It was a rare sight to see Holmes somewhat uncomfortable, believing he had hardly earned the praise.
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX Page 28
