* * *
No cabman was willing to take us in our filthy state and so we were forced to walk the whole way back to Baker Street. We had parted from Mackay at the opening to the tunnel, with the promise that if we had any news about Red Rob’s killer, we would send word to him. He was not the most likeable of souls, but there was no doubting the genuine affection he had felt for the dead man.
My first concern when finally we stumbled through the door of 221B was to bathe thoroughly. I threw my gloves, my rubber boots and the bag with my filthy coat in it into a corner and began to draw a bath, while Holmes fussed about at the table, writing out a note.
“While you refresh yourself, Watson, I must send Lestrade a telegram,” he called.
“To what effect?” I replied heavily, more exhausted than I cared to admit from our day’s labours.
“To ask him to seek out a limping man,” I thought I heard Holmes say, but before I could seek clarification of this cryptic response, he had already gone. I looked out of the window and saw him striding down the street, still in his rubber boots.
When I emerged from my bath some time later, Holmes had not yet returned so, with no great regret, I admit, I went to bed. Whatever he had found would wait for now.
* * *
I must have been more exhausted than I thought, for I slept right through to the next morning. When I finally rose I found a note, pinned to the table with a hunting knife: “Gone out. Meet me at Scotland Yard at noon.” With nothing else to do, I ate a leisurely breakfast, smoked several cigarettes, and only headed downstairs to hail a cab at half past eleven.
Holmes was already sitting in Lestrade’s office when I was shown in by an elderly constable. He nodded a greeting as I took a seat opposite the inspector, who allowed himself a small smile as he announced that he had news for us. He pulled a buff folder from a neatly stacked pile and placed the single sheet it contained on the desk before us.
“My men have not been idle since receiving your telegram last night, Mr. Holmes. In fairness, I cannot deny that I thought your suggestion about the limping man a flight of fancy. Still, your more outlandish theories have proven correct before, so I set Constable Howie the task of checking to see if anyone had encountered such an individual at the time and place you mentioned. And lo and behold, he found one!”
He leaned forward and tapped a finger on the sheet of paper. “One Thomas Gough – though I suspect that to be an alias – was stopped and questioned by a constable in Beaufort Street at the time of the attack on the Ambassador, on account of the fact he was walking as though he were drunk. You’ll see from the report that he was a well-dressed sort, if roughly spoken, of above average height and athletic build. The constable was satisfied with his explanation that he had snapped a shoelace, hence his shuffling gait.”
The little inspector relaxed back into his chair with an irritated look on his face. “Unfortunately, the constable was so satisfied that he took down no more details than a name, and let him go on his way. Therefore, we have no address, I’m afraid to say.”
Holmes, however, was already on his feet and reaching for his hat and scarf. “That is of no matter for the moment, Inspector,” he chided as he pulled open the office door. “If you could set one of your able assistants the task of checking for any reported robbery in one of the nearby streets that day, and supply transport for Watson and myself, then I think we will shortly make significant progress on the case. Come now,” he concluded with a grin, “we have Watson’s regimental tie to reclaim!”
Lestrade looked to me in bemusement as Holmes left the room, but I could only shrug and suggest that he do as he had been asked.
“Very well,” he grunted. “One hour for this tomfoolery, and then I expect all our attention to be focused on the Ambassador!”
* * *
As it happened, Lestrade could find only one constable whom he felt was inadequately occupied, and so there were four of us in the growler that made its way to Chelsea ten minutes later. I took the opportunity of the brief journey to ask Holmes what exactly he believed we would find there.
“I checked before we left, Mr. Holmes, and there were no burglaries reported in the last month. This is generally a decent area,” he explained, “with a police presence at all times. Crime is rare.”
Holmes frowned, and his expression changed to one of grave concern. “In which case I fear that we are likely to find more than just your errant neckwear, Watson. Robert Rae was not, I suspect, our quarry’s only victim.”
“Another murder?” Lestrade’s head snapped up. The inspector might have considered the death of a foreign diplomat of greater importance than that of a humble mudlark, but he was too good a policeman to ignore a murder of any kind.
“Almost certainly, Inspector,” Holmes replied. From his pocket he pulled the object he had retrieved inside the sewer. It was a brown shoelace, threaded through a small piece of leather. “I found this tied to a sewer grating during a trip Watson and I took underneath London recently. As you can see, it was at one point connected to a leather bag of some kind, possibly of the sort some gentlemen use for carrying loose change. I believe that the bag contained certain items which ‘Thomas Gough’ did not wish to risk having found on him should he be stopped and questioned by one of the many policemen in the area after the attack on the Ambassador. Securing it to a nearby grating by means of one of his own shoelaces was presumably the most expedient way in which to rid himself of its contents without discarding them completely.”
“That’s quite an assumption to hang on a single shoelace,” Lestrade protested.
“Oh, we can hang many more. We can also conclude that whatever was in the bag was both small and valuable. Had it been larger, it would not have fitted into any bag capable of being held in place in such a manner, and had it not been valuable, Gough could simply have dropped it in the street. A small, valuable object or group of objects which cannot be shown to the police? You recall the gold ring I mentioned, found by a mudlark? A ring is a difficult thing to take from a man without him knowing it. Thus, if you assure me that no burglary has been reported in this heavily policed area in recent weeks, nor any assault and robbery in the street, I fear that whoever was robbed was also killed.”
It was a well-constructed theory, but Lestrade thought he had spotted a flaw. “It could be that the person who has been burgled has been away for the last few days and doesn’t even know he’s been robbed yet.”
“Possibly, Inspector,” replied Holmes unperturbed. “But we know that our man has killed once. I would not care to wager that he has not done so previously.”
Lestrade nodded. “You heard Mr. Holmes,” he said to the constable beside him. “As soon as we get there, you start knocking on doors, find out if anyone’s not been seen for a few days.”
“We should first find the sewer grating I tied Watson’s tie to, Lestrade,” Holmes suggested. “We will then be able to focus our investigations.”
“As you think best,” Lestrade agreed.
Just then, the carriage slowed as we approached our destination. Holmes, keen as ever to move his enquiries forwards, had pulled open the carriage door and leaped out before the horses had even come to a complete stop, and was on his knees by the nearest sewer grating before any of the rest of us had alighted.
“Nothing here,” he confirmed, rising to his feet, “but if we fan out from this spot, there cannot be too many such gratings to check.”
If Lestrade objected to being treated in so high-handed a fashion, he gave no sign. Instead, he ordered his men to set off in opposite directions, while he trudged down the nearest street, turning his collar up against the incessant drizzle. The afternoon had turned grey, and it was too early for the street lamps to be lit. In the uncertain light, I hoped we would not miss anything.
In fact, we were extremely fortunate. Lestrade gave a shout within five minutes of our going our separate ways. We followed his voice to where he stood, at the entrance to Elm Park Mews,
a small street which split off from Beaufort Street in a narrow lane of two-storey buildings. Clutched triumphantly in his hand was my much-abused regimental tie.
“Excellent work, Inspector,” Holmes enthused as he strode into the street, which took a sharp right turn within a couple of dozen yards. “Aha!” he exclaimed triumphantly, pointing to the other end of the street. It was completely blocked with scaffolding and carts filled with building materials, evidence of ongoing construction work. “Our man had no choice but to exit onto Beaufort Street. Lestrade, if your constable could begin rousing the occupants of these houses, that would be most helpful.”
Lestrade knew his business, however, and had already called his man to him. “You heard Mr. Holmes, Lawrence,” he said briskly. “You can take the left-hand side. Make sure you get an answer at each door, or if you can’t, take a note of the number and we’ll come back later. And bear in mind that some of these addresses may actually be bachelor apartments, so you’ll need to get inside to find out who’s home. Ask the occupants…” He stopped and looked across at Holmes. “What exactly shall we ask, Mr. Holmes? About any neighbour who’s not been seen for a bit?”
“Since the day the Ambassador was attacked. That should focus people’s minds. I imagine it has been the talk of these streets ever since.”
“Very good,” the inspector replied. “And perhaps you and Dr. Watson could take the houses on the far right?”
I nodded my agreement, and we set off towards the end of the street.
* * *
I had expected the process to be a swift one, but I had not allowed for slow-witted maids. After half an hour we had managed to consult the occupants of only four addresses. I consoled myself that the progress of the two policemen had not been much better. As I waited for a response to Holmes’s knock on our latest door, I glanced down the street and saw Constable Lawrence engaged in a discussion with the caretaker of a set of rooms halfway up the left side. He caught my eye and beckoned to me. I nudged Holmes and he, abandoning our fruitless efforts, joined me in hurrying back down the street.
The constable was young enough to be impressed with his own role in an investigation involving both his own inspector and Sherlock Holmes.
“It is probably nothing, sir,” he intoned with due solemnity, reading slowly from his notebook, “but a Mr. Horton, who has rooms in this building, responded to my enquiry by stating that he had not seen one of his neighbours since shortly before the assault on the foreign Ambassador. On further enquiry, the caretaker of the residence confirmed that though he had personally witnessed the gentleman going up to his rooms three days ago in the company of another man, he has not to his knowledge been out since that date. It is,” he concluded, snapping shut his notebook with an unexpected flourish, “not like Mr. Bruce at all, apparently.”
This was exactly what Holmes had been hoping for. “Lead the way, constable,” he said, then strode past the officer in the direction of the nearest building.
* * *
The caretaker took us up to the first floor, where two sets of rooms were situated side by side. Hovering at the open doorway of the flat immediately before us was a stout, red-faced man in house coat and slippers, obviously the concerned neighbour, Mr. Horton. He scuttled forward to meet us.
“Finally!” he grunted with undisguised irritation. “The constable said that his inspector would need to be told of my suspicions regarding that fool of a showman next door, but I did not expect to be kept waiting all day on my own doorstep at the pleasure of Scotland Yard, sir!”
I informed him that neither I nor Holmes, who had walked past us without acknowledgment, was a member of the police force, and his scowl, if anything, increased in ferocity. “What do you mean, sir! Must I waste the remains of my morning while I wait for this Inspector Lestrade to honour me with his presence?”
I felt Constable Lawrence bristle at my side and quickly dispatched him to fetch Lestrade, while reassuring Horton that the inspector would be on the premises shortly.
Horton’s manner mellowed a little at this reassurance, and he unbent sufficiently to give me a stiff nod of thanks. “James G. Horton,” he said in belated introduction. “I have had rooms for several years now,” he continued without further preamble, “and, until recently, have been very satisfied. I am a writer of some celebrity, you see, and require peace and solitude in which to compose.”
“Doctor John Watson,” I said in return then, after a long pause, continued, “You were satisfied only until recently, you said?”
Horton nodded fiercely. “Until Alexander Bruce moved into the apartment next door! Since that lamentable date I have been plagued by sound and fury, rendering me unable to write a single word of any real substance. Unsuitable and rowdy callers at all hours – and none of them gentlemen in anything but dress, mark my words. I spoke to him, of course,” he went on grimly, “but to no avail.” He glanced across at his neighbour’s door. “The past few days have been a much-needed respite, I must admit, but when your man spoke to me, I knew I must speak up. Bruce is a poor neighbour, but I would not—”
“Watson!”
Holmes’s voice brought Horton’s explanations to a sudden halt, like a gavel rapped on a judge’s bench. He stood with his hand on the doorknob of Alexander Bruce’s rooms.
“Time is pressing,” my friend continued in a more conversational tone, “and this door appears to be unlocked. Perhaps we might continue this conversation at a later date?”
I gave a small apologetic shrug to Mr. Horton. “Perhaps you could wait here for Inspector Lestrade?” I suggested, as Holmes pushed open the door and stepped inside.
* * *
I have often marvelled at Holmes’s ability to enter a room and, after only a few moments’ examination, recount its story in often improbable detail. To some, I knew that it appeared that he plucked his conclusions from the air, and even I, who had seen him perform this magic on many, many occasions, still found myself astonished by some fresh example of his art.
The topic came up at a regimental dinner I attended one freezing winter night, and as a brother officer and I drank a little more than was wise by the fire at the end of the evening, neither of us keen to venture out into the cold, I tried to explain my own thinking on the matter.
Examining a room alongside Holmes, I contended, could only be compared to reading an ancient manuscript, the language of which had its long-atrophied roots in your own tongue but which no longer resembled it in any meaningful manner. You might conceivably recognise a word stem here, or make out a shared sentence construction there, but the meaning of the whole must remain a mystery to you. Should a companion also examine the manuscript, however, a native speaker of the language in which it is written, he would be able effortlessly to turn what to you are mere lines and whorls into letters and words, and so comprehend the truth within. Holmes, I believed, could do the same thing with the world at large. To him, the curve of a broken milk jug, the chipped edge of a table, a heel print in the ash of the fire, each of these made up a part of a larger tale, the sense of which only he could ascertain. Holmes’s fluency lay in the language of connections, of small things colliding, and in their collision creating, not destroying. He can stand at the scene of a crime and hear the story those connections whisper in his ear, I said, and though I had drunk more whisky than I had intended, the description was accurate, if florid.
He was like that now. Having barked an order that everyone else should remain at the door, he stalked to the window and pulled a cord, which opened the heavy curtains. The dregs of the winter light spilled across the floor to the left and right, washing in sequence over several bottles of wine on a thick yellow carpet, an ugly wooden cabinet, a sofa piled high with newspapers and magazines, a wall covered with framed photographs and etchings of a sporting nature and a pair of matching black lacquered sideboards. On top of the left-hand of these sat a very fine crystal decanter and set of spirit and wine glasses. In the centre of the room a long, thin onyx t
able held two cups and saucers and a plate of sandwiches which, even from the edge of the room, I could see had gone green with mould.
Clouds of dust scattered before Holmes like autumn leaves as he walked from the window over to a pair of doors spaced equidistant on the back wall. He opened each and passed inside, reappearing a minute later, shaking his head.
“A bedroom, containing an unmade bed and a bedside table heaped with newspapers and a substantial amount of money; at least fifty pounds in one- and five-pound notes,” he announced, loudly enough for us to hear as he exited the first, and “the usual offices,” as he left the second.
Footsteps behind me announced the arrival of Lestrade, and muttered complaints and soft explanations that of Horton.
Holmes moved about the room with a stooped back and a crab-like gait, shuffling from side to side at one moment, then creeping forward the next, at every point with his head bowed to the ground. Now and then a word, or what sounded like a word, would emerge from his mouth like a puff of air, but whatever he said was too quiet to make out. Finally, he crouched by the collection of bottles and carefully examined each of the labels in turn. After three full minutes of such near inactivity, I called his name softly, not wishing to break his concentration if he should be constructing some complex theory, but equally aware that he could very well simply have forgotten our existence and even now be considering the aerodynamics of the common house fly, or the relative incidence of burglaries in London and Paris. We might as well not have been present, however, for in reply, he merely rose to his feet and walked to the wall opposite, where he leaned against the cabinet. Once there, he did nothing further, but simply placed his hands in his pockets and rocked slowly back and forth on his heels.
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