The Final Page of Baker Street

by Daniel D Victor

  I grunted at his false modesty.

  He ignored my scepticism and went on about the maid. “She’d just finished washing the kitchen floor and was behind the house pouring out the dirty water. From her I learned that it was Nancy, the parlour maid, who’d heard from Mrs. Leonard’s maid Violet, what had happened.”

  Ivy, Nancy, Violet. Billy seemed in his element when talking about women. “You simply smiled at her, and she brought out this Nancy to talk with you - is that it?”

  Billy nodded, running a hand through his thick dark hair. “Yes, Dr. Watson, that’s exactly what happened. Get past my crooked nose, and I’m a cute enough fellow. But even the scullery maid could tell that Nancy was in need of a man, and here was one on the doorstep, as it were, who wanted to speak with her - since Nancy was the one who’d conversed with Violet.”

  “A fact which you probably didn’t emphasize in arranging your tryst.”

  “Right again. Nancy ambled out to the back, saw me and smoothed down her billowing black skirt. She twisted round her index finger a side-curl that had worked its way out from under her white cap.”

  Anticipating that Billy was about to produce some intimate details, I reasoned that neither the constable at the front door nor anyone else with more than a passing interest needed to overhear our conversation.

  “Before you provide any lurid information,” I said softly, “let’s move down the road.” I held out my arm to indicate the direction, and Billy and I innocently sauntered past a couple of neighbouring houses and stopped beneath the branches of one of the kerbside oaks. The shadow of its leaves added to the darkness of the afternoon.

  “And so,” I began again, “just what did you learn from the parlour maid?”

  Billy took a deep breath and resumed his narrative: “Nancy told me that Violet McGee - ”

  “Mrs. Leonard’s maid?”

  Billy nodded, annoyed by my interruption.“Violet McGee,” he began again with a dollop of sarcasm, “Mrs. Leonard’s maid, entered the bedroom early yesterday morning with her mistress’ breakfast. The room was empty. Violet couldn’t find her mistress upstairs, so she proceeded to the ground floor. When she reached the smaller drawing room, she discovered its doors were locked and got Norris the butler to unlock them. When she entered, she discovered her mistress lying on the floor in her nightdress and Terence standing over her. There was blood all round, and we already know that Mrs. Leonard’s head was terribly battered. Violet screamed for help. It was at this moment that Terrence pushed past Norris, who was still in the hallway, and ran up the stairs. Presumably, this was when Terrence must have picked up his wife’s gun. Then he bolted. Lord Steynwood, who was summoned from his club, immediately called Dr. Goring, his daughter Cora’s husband. Then Lord Steynwood called Scotland Yard. Needless to say, suspicion immediately fell on Terrence for having fled the scene.”

  “A very thorough report.”

  “Except that Sylvia Leonard’s still dead,” he said.

  “From your account, there seemed to be no great weeping in the house. People going on about their daily business. No one too broken up by Mrs. Leonard’s death, were they?”

  “No, none of the servants seemed too distraught - that is, except Violet who discovered the body. I was actually going to ask more questions about Mrs. Leonard’s relationships with the staff, but Norris himself came outside to retrieve poor Nancy. The scullery maid had obviously done some talking.”

  “And did Norris have anything of interest to say?”

  “Only that the maids were to show me great distance as I was a friend of the man who had murdered their mistress.”

  “And His Lordship? Where is he?”

  “Not out at the back where the scullery-maid empties her water, that’s certain. In a word, I don’t know.”

  “Given these further details,” I said, “how do you now feel about your friend’s guilt?”

  Billy’s eyes pierced the dappled shadows created by the leaves. “I know he’s a strange character, Dr. Watson, but I don’t think he’s a killer. I can’t imagine who committed this horrible deed, and I don’t know how to find out. Still, I want to help as much as I can. If the true murderer ever is discovered, I’m sure Terrence will return from wherever he’s run off to.”

  In the midst of telling him that I hoped he was correct, I detected movement up the road; in point of fact, the front door of the Steynwood house had opened, and Inspector Youghal, accompanied by two uniformed constables, was marching down the short staircase.

  As they walked towards the police motor-car, Youghal spied the two of us huddling among the shadows. “Hullo,” he cried, pointing at Billy, “the very man I’m looking for.” He strode rapidly towards us, sweeping up the two constables in his wake.

  “Billy the page,” Youghal announced, eyes narrowing, “also known as Mr. Raymond Chandler?”

  “Yes,” Billy said.

  “Inspector,” I intervened, “you know who he is; you saw him last night at my home.”

  “Sir,” he addressed Billy, maintaining his official tone as if I had not spoken, “we need you to accompany us to the station. I was about to go looking for you in Bloomsbury, but you have saved me the trouble. We found your name and address on a sheet of paper sitting atop Mr. Leonard’s desk, and we have reason to believe that he was seeking your help following his brutal attack on his wife. Come along, please.”

  “Inspector,” I said, my voice full of exasperation, “this is not new information. Leonard told me he went looking for Billy after he’d left the house. It was only when he couldn’t find Billy that he came to my surgery.”

  Still paying me no mind, Youghal nodded at his men; and the two constables grabbed Billy’s upper arms and escorted him to the awaiting car.

  “Get Mr. Holmes!” Billy was able to shout before they unceremoniously shoved him into the vehicle.

  “My thought exactly,” I said to myself as the car was rumbling off down the road, belching clouds of black smoke.

  I turned and walked rapidly - indeed, almost ran - to the nearest telegraph-office.

  “Come quickly,” I wired Holmes in Sussex, “Billy is in trouble.”

  * * *

  A hansom brought me to the Victoria Embankment where looms the Victorian-Gothic police headquarters commonly known as Scotland Yard. The massive structure is imposing enough to the innocent bystander; one can only imagine how ominous its red and white stonework and turrets must look to someone being taken inside for questioning. I didn’t believe for a moment that, beyond Billy’s friendship with Terrence Leonard, the lad had any connection to the murder of Lord Steynwood’s daughter. But the risk of Billy’s being manhandled by an overly zealous constabulary prompted my concern. At the very least, I wanted Youghal to know that Billy was being looked out for.

  After making my way through a warren of indistinguishable hallways and offices, I found the Criminal Investigation Department. A beetle-browed sergeant sat ata desk near the doorway, and I told him that it was imperative that I saw the inspector.

  “Not accepting visitors today, is he, Guv?” the sergeant replied calmly.

  “Now see here,” I responded angrily, “I must - ”

  “Try again tomorrow, yeh?” he said with a wink.

  His relaxed demeanour irritated me all the more. “Tell him - ”

  “Inspector Youghal?” he added with a chuckle, “he might be receiving guests tomorrow at tea time.”

  It was obvious that I wasn’t getting past this Keeper of the Gate. Exasperated, I marched out of the building.

  Muted sunlight still washed the summer sky in shades of pastel pink, but the afternoon was turning into evening - too late, I thought, for a visit to my solicitor. Yet I couldn’t forsake Billy. I returned to Scotland Yard twice that evening to send notes in to him, and I was troubled that my com
munications had gone unanswered. I could only assume that the police were detaining him over night to badger him into giving them the information they wanted to hear.

  While Billy remained uppermost in my mind, I also had my surgery to consider. With patients scheduled for Friday morning, I tried reassuring myself that at least I knew where Billy was. In police custody, he couldn’t get into any more trouble playing detective. On the other hand, I didn’t want to leave him to the mercy of the police - not with Inspector Youghal’s interrogation methods in mind. As soon as I’d seen my patients, I would return to Scotland Yard and renew my demands for his release.

  Truth be told, although I hadn’t yet heard from Holmes, I was still hoping that he might end up accompanying me. Not that I was worried that he hadn’t responded to my wire. While Holmes could always be relied upon to furnish immediate aid, he wasn’t the most punctilious of correspondents. Indeed, he regarded the contents of needless communications as useless facts. “It is of the highest importance, Watson,” he told me long ago, “not to have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones.”

  * * *

  “Mrs. Titmus,” Miss Shelvington whispered to me Friday morning as I entered the surgery. She was referring to a new patient, the heavily made-up, elderly woman dressed in sombre black who was seated in my waiting room. Although no rain seemed imminent, Mrs. Titmus was accoutred with a baggy parasol, which just then was leaning against a neighbouring chair. I introduced myself; and picking up from the flat box near the doorway my nurse’s report, invited Mrs. Titmus into my consulting room. After she’d grasped her parasol and got to her feet, I could see that, despite her mild stoop, she was quite tall and thin.

  We settled opposite each other at my desk, and I quickly read over Miss Shelvington’s notes.

  “It would appear, Mrs. Titmus, that you suffer from a sore throat,” I observed.

  “Yes,” she answered in what amounted to a stage whisper. “It hurts to swallow.”

  I thought I detected a Yorkshire inflection.

  “Allow me to have a look, won’t you?” I asked as, wooden tongue depressor in hand, I made my way round the desk.

  She visibly stiffened when I approached her mouth, and from so close a distance I could easily see the thick rouge applied to her cheeks. I peered into the cavern of her afflicted throat, but could detect no signs of inflammation or infection. Indeed, I began to wonder whether she was some sort of hypochondriac who was wasting my time. The world is full of patients who seem to enjoy their occasions in a doctor’s surgery; to them, it is like sitting for tea. While Billy remained in confinement, I had to humour this woman’s whims. And then there was the whereabouts of Sherlock Holmes to occupy my thoughts.

  “Frankly, Mrs. Titmus,” I said, stepping back, “I find very little to comment on in your throat. Are you sure that is what truly bothers you?”

  “Here,” she responded in a hoarse voice, “What do you take me for - some sort of charlatan? I tell you that my throat has reduced me to whispers.”

  I felt most unprofessional to have so forcefully challenged a patient seeking help. “Let me consult a medical book, Madam. Perhaps I need to reconsider my diagnosis. Some oesophageal affliction may have escaped my memory.”

  I turned to the bookshelf behind my desk to survey a series of spines bound in green leather. I had just fingered the tome likely to contain what I was seeking when from behind me I was astounded to hear a familiar voice, “I can only hope, Watson, that you haven’t erased me from your memory as easily as some ‘oesophageal affliction’.”

  With a hearty laugh, Sherlock Holmes, swept the grey curls from atop his head and straightened to his true height. Although still made up in that garish face paint, he no longer resembled the old lady who had entered my office.

  “H-Holmes,” I gasped, forced to take a seat, “you - you never fail to surprise me.”

  “Not even with this?” he asked, raising before me the baggy parasol. “It is, after all, the old brolly from Baker Street - the same one I used to fool Negretto in recovering the stolen diamond.”

  I remained speechless, fooled once again by my old friend.

  “You remember, Watson. ‘The Mazarin Stone’? Billy described the brolly in that story he wrote all those years ago?”

  “Billy!” I said. Immediately composing myself, I quickly reported to Holmes all that had transpired the day before - the murder of Sylvia Leonard, Terrence Leonard’s appearance at my surgery, my meeting with Billy in front of Lord Steynbrook’s home, and the young man’s subsequent detention by the police.

  “I assumed this charade, Watson, to prevent the eyes and ears of Lord Steynwood or anyone else from interfering with my journey to London. But now that I am here, I can dispose of this paraphernalia. We must go see Youghal as soon as possible.”

  I showed Holmes to his room where he could wash the make-up from his face and change his clothing. He had kept his more traditional attire in a Gladstone carefully hidden near the front door of my surgery.

  The duplicitous Mrs. Titmus turned out to be my only patient that morning, the two others who were scheduled having failed to arrive. When my friend re-appeared as Sherlock Holmes, therefore, the two of us could immediately set off for Scotland Yard. On the way, I furnished Holmes the details that Billy had secured from Nancy the parlour maid relating to the murder of Sylvia Leonard. I also reported to him on the valiant service to her Majesty that Terrence Leonard had performed in South Africa. With the charges against Leonard so bleak, I thought some attempt should be made to balance the books. Although Holmes and I spent most of the trip to Scotland Yard discussing Terrence Leonard, it can’t be said that our thoughts ever strayed too far from the well-being of Billy the page.

  V

  What did it matter where you lay once you were dead? ... You were dead, you were sleeping the big sleep, you were not bothered by things like that.

  - Raymond Chandler, The Big Sleep

  Clearly, the name of Sherlock Holmes opened more doors at Scotland Yard than did mine. With the beetle-browed sergeant from the day before nowhere to be seen, Youghal himself brought Billy out to us at the long counter at the front of the C.I.D office.

  “Come all the way up from Sussex for your pageboy, have you, Mr. Holmes?” Such was the detective’s greeting to my friend. “Well,” he said, opening the little gate at the end of the counter, “you can have him back.” And Youghal gave Billy a little shove in our direction. “We still think he knows where Mr. Leonard got himself off to,” the inspector said, “but a night of questioning didn’t get it out of him, so we’ll cut him loose for the time being.” Dark half-circles beneath the policeman’s eyes suggested that he himself had been personally involved in the so-called interrogation session.

  It was with a grateful sigh that a haggard-looking Billy stumbled over to Holmes and me on our side of the wooden railing.

  “If any harm has come to this lad - ” I began.

  But Holmes cut me off. “Now that I’m here in London,” he said to the Inspector, “I should very much like to see the scene of Sylvia Leonard’s murder. I expect that you can arrange admission for us to Lord Steynwood’s town house.”

  Holmes’ suggestion seemed to revive Billy. At the same time, a smirk worked its way into the policeman’s tired face. “I won’t say that I’d turn down your help, Mr. Holmes, but I don’t believe that you’ll be uncovering anything that my lads haven’t already found. Terrence Leonard beat his wife to death, and there’s the end to it. Still, I can’t deny that you’ve been an aid in the past, and I don’t see why you shouldn’t give it a go.”

  “His Lordship won’t object?” I asked, focusing on Holmes’ plans instead of Billy’s ordeal.

  The inspector’s tired face smiled more broadly this time. “Oh, Dr. Watson,” he said, “I have no scruples when it comes to disturbing the leisure time of the idle
rich.”

  Or the falsely accused, I thought. But rather than prolonging my outrage, I turned to Billy. “Are you feeling fit enough to make the trip?”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied, straightening up. “I’d love to try my hand at examining the murder scene.”

  With a sarcastic snigger, Youghal led us outside. We followed him across the road to the nearby police garage and stables where he requested a vehicle. We had to wait a few minutes, but eventually we heard the slow clip-clop of hooves. Moments later, a pair of matching coal-black horses pulling an enclosed black van came to a stop before us.

  “Surely, not for us?” I said. No modern motor-car like the one Youghal had commandeered the previous day, the so-called “Black Maria” was a wagon usually reserved for the transporting of prisoners.

  “We make do,” Youghal shrugged, nodding at the driver. We followed the detective round to the back where he opened the rear door and climbed into the small, dank compartment. Holmes, Billy, and I followed. At least, the thick wooden door, through whose small barred window in its middle a few rays of light penetrated, thankfully remained unlocked. Accompanied by the plodding hooves of the horses, we clattered our way across the city to Mayfair.

  * * *

  Nothing had changed. Despite the shade from the trees in the front of the house, I could easily discern the burly constable with his arms behind him still standing at the front door. Once he espied Inspector Youghal climbing out of the van, he straightened his stance. The rest of us followed suit, extricating ourselves from the tight quarters, then stretching our legs and swinging our arms to get the circulation flowing again. The inspector marched up the front steps where Norris the butler spoke to him. Norris had opened the door only halfway but after a few hushed words with Youghal, pulled it wide and ushered us in. The butler led us through the entry hall and past the sweeping grand staircase, the cavernous north drawing-room, and the multi-volume library. He stopped before a small, salon with three sets of large French windows.

  “The south drawing-room,” Norris announced.