Encounters of Sherlock Holmes

by George Mann

  We boarded at the run, just before it pulled away, and by sheer luck snagged an empty carriage, just as Miss Emily Williams had done before us. I pulled the door shut and sat down heavily as the engine jolted into action. Immediately, Holmes fell into deep thought, staring intently out of the window in silence. Generally, when Holmes becomes thus distracted while travelling I fall back on reading or updating my notes, but as I had not intended to take the train at all, I was entirely unprepared. As a consequence, I was forced back upon my own thoughts for the duration of the journey and I freely admit that I allowed my mind to wander as the train began to pick up speed.

  After only a minute or two in the dark tunnel which appears to be a requirement of every English railway station, we emerged into a world of only slightly more light, as the train settled into its place on a sunken track cut into the very body of the city. Had I hoped to spend a pleasant half hour idly watching the countryside fly by, I was in for a shock, but fortunately I had lived in the capital long enough to know that greenery was in short supply, especially near railway lines. Consequently, the view of embankments covered in thick weeds and dusty grey grass was no surprise. Ahead, a gang of labourers were doing their best to clear some of the overgrown undergrowth, but it looked to be back-breaking work and unlikely to achieve much longterm success. As the train passed them, each man took a moment to look up and wave to the passengers. When I lifted a hand selfconsciously in reply, Holmes started violently across from me.

  “Holmes?” I said, with some concern, but he gestured impatiently for silence.

  As soon as we arrived at the train terminus, he ran into the street and, waving down a passing hansom cab, ordered the driver to take him back to the very station we had departed so recently. As the cab pulled away, he leant out and shouted that he would prefer it if I did not examine the carriage myself.

  “But perhaps a word or two with the mysterious Bill Fraser?” he shouted at the last, then pulled his head back inside and was gone.

  * * *

  Bill Fraser, when I tracked him down, was a small, slim man with a quiet, hesitant manner of speaking. He wore his brown hair trimmed short, almost to the skull, and his neat moustache was cut similarly close. When he spoke his hand invariably fluttered to his mouth, where his fingers spread out over his lips like the guard on a helmet. The impression of some form of nervous bird was unmistakable.

  Fraser’s room reflected its tenant in every respect. Tidy and spotlessly clean, I considered ruefully how different it was to my own lodgings. He politely bade me take a seat and, in response to a question about his meeting with Miss Williams the previous day, proved happy to talk at length.

  “Our meeting was pure coincidence, Dr Watson,” he began in a friendly tone. “It so happened that I had the afternoon off work and a couple of errands to run in the city, so I’d taken a train that morning and then spent about an hour engaged in shopping. I was actually thinking that I’d best be heading back, so you could have knocked me down with a feather when I opened the door to the last shop I had to visit and out walked Mrs Fellows and her sister. I mean to say, I didn’t know that it was her sister, not having had the pleasure before, but I would have guessed she was family in any case, so strong was the resemblance.”

  I nodded my understanding. “And Mrs Fellows asked you to walk with them?”

  “Not quite, Dr Watson. Mrs Fellows was kind enough to say hello and even to introduce me to her sister, but I could see she was in a hurry to be going. They had one or two small bags with them but it seemed that not much had caught Miss Williams’ eye, for she said that they had been walking about the shops for several hours. In fact, she said that it was fortunate that her sister had accompanied her, as she—Mrs Fellows, that is—had far greater experience in furnishing a new home and had prevented Miss Williams buying many unsuitable items. Please believe me, Doctor, when I say that I would never have dreamed of imposing myself on them, but it so happened that Miss Williams noticed that I was carrying some sheet music, and asked about it.”

  He laughed, a little self-consciously. “I am teaching myself the violin and had just bought the score to the latest Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. Miss Williams, it turned out, had a similar fondness for their work and asked me to walk with them so that we might discuss our favourite sections. She was a fanatic for the earlier operettas, Pirates of Penzance for preference, she said, while I prefer their more recent work.”

  “When did you leave the ladies?” I asked as he fell silent.

  “Why, I did not,” replied the man in surprise. “At least not at the same time. Mrs Fellows began to feel unwell and suggested that they should cancel their expedition for the present. Mrs Fellows said she would walk her sister to her train, but Miss Williams was kind enough to say that she would be perfectly willing to have me escort her directly to the station, so that Mrs Fellows could more quickly get her herself home, before her illness worsened. So I hailed a hansom for Mrs Fellows, though she objected to being treated like an invalid, and then walked Miss Williams to the train station, where I left her at the gates, having no platform ticket of my own.”

  “And that was the last you saw of her?” I asked.

  Fraser nodded. “It was. I only wish she had listened more to her sister. They—that is Mrs Fellows and Miss Williams—had been discussing the dangers of a single lady travelling alone on the railway, you see. They asked my advice and I told Miss Williams to be careful who she allowed to sit in the carriage alongside her, what with there being so many strange men about. Which seems so ironic now, when she died all alone in a locked carriage.”

  For a moment I wondered why Mrs Fellows had not mentioned this discussion when we spoke, then I remembered that the interview had broken off early and we had not covered the time after she and her sister had met up with Fraser.

  I asked the man a few other questions, but he was unable to tell me anyhing of use to the case. We briefly discussed his employer (a good man, who worked hard and thought the world of his wife) and Mrs Fellows (who he claimed barely to know, beyond exchanging pleasantries), but he could suggest no person who might have carried out the assault on Miss Williams. I thanked him for his time and left.

  * * *

  It was early evening by the time I emerged. I could return to Baker Street and a well-deserved dinner courtesy of the redoubtable Mrs Hudson, which was undeniably a tempting thought. But it was only a short walk to Leyton station, and the guard, Nicholas, had suggested returning at six to interview the mysterious gentleman who had struggled to find a carriage on Miss Williams’ train.

  So it was that I found myself once more at the entryway to Leyton station. No less than earlier, the platforms and thoroughfares were thronged with people, bustling past with heads down, muffled against the cold fog, resembling nothing so much as a river in full spate. It seemed a hopeless task to identify one man in such an assembly, but fortunately Tyler happened to be passing as I stood irresolutely at the edge of this tide of London life.

  “Dr Watson,” the guard cried as he emerged from the throng. He explained that he was finished for the day, but would be delighted to point out the man I was looking for before setting off for home. He led me along the front of the crowd for a moment or two, then cut across them in determined fashion, an old hand in such matters. I followed more tentatively, apologising first to one side then the other, as our path disturbed the passage of commuters and caused various passengers to come to an unexpected halt.

  We emerged from the other side into an area of comparative peace. Tyler gestured at a man walking towards us. His chin was held low and tucked into the top of a substantial scarf. As he also wore a somewhat shapeless brown hat, pulled down over his eyes, it was difficult to see anything of his features until he was almost upon us.

  “Excuse me, sir!” said the excellent Mr Tyler, placing a hand on the man’s arm. He stopped at once and looked up at us, expectantly. Now exposed, I could see that the man had a patrician look about him, with a st
rong chin, thin lips and a long, straight nose. His eyes, however, were his most prominent feature. They were pale blue and sparkled with such evident delight in life that I found myself warming to the man before he had said a word. When he did speak, in response to Tyler’s introductions and mention of the trouble he had experienced finding a carriage a few days previously, his voice was a match for his face, a rich baritone with a hint of the florid about it. He had a tendency to speak at length with no apparent pause for breath.

  “Why yes indeed! I remember it most vividly! It was very peculiar all round, in point of fact. But first! My name is Henry Clarendon, an actor by profession, and I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Dr Watson.” He handed me his card and beamed at us both. “I make a point of keeping up to date with the activities of Mr Sherlock Holmes and yourself. I appreciate the drama of the thing most of all, of course, but the clever way that Mr Holmes comes to his conclusions are worthy of praise indeed!

  “But let me think back to that day. I am currently appearing as Gloucester in a production of Lear—in fact I have just returned from the theatre—but I was not required for rehearsals that day so had been pottering here and there. Little antique shops, sellers of bric-a-brac, you know the sort of thing, I’m sure. Quite exhausting in its way, and so I had a spot of tea in a little cafeteria not far from the station prior to meeting a friend in town. I arrived at the station, saw that a train was shortly to leave and made my way to the platform.” The actor’s brow furrowed with indignation as he recalled the events of that day. “The first carriage I attempted to enter contained but a single young lady,” he continued. “I made to move within but I had no sooner put a foot inside when the foolish woman began caterwauling as though I were Franz Muller himself! I removed myself with dispatch, let me assure you, gentlemen. I have no wish to be another innocent man pilloried in the newspapers for the crime of travelling alone in a carriage with a vaporous woman possessed of an overactive imagination!” The man’s voice had risen to a near-shout by now, and in my medical opinion his face was dangerously flushed, which made the huge grin which next spread over his face surprising, to say the least. “But never mind, eh?” he boomed. “Never stay where you’re not wanted is my professional motto, and it makes a dashed good one for other areas of life too.

  “In any case, finding myself once more standing on the platform and the train in danger of leaving without me, I hurried to the next carriage along, flung open the door — and met with a barrage of abuse that, were I not a peaceful man, could well have led to the fellow within receiving the thrashing of his life. ‘Blackguard’ was the very least of the epithets cast in my direction, Doctor, but I decided discretion was the better part of valour and closed the door on the dreadful man. I then moved along to a third carriage, where a very friendly couple — from Grimsby, would you believe! — were happy to welcome me into their snug little abode. We wiled away the journey most pleasantly, I may say, with the two young people delighted to listen to a selection of my speeches from the Bard. So all’s well that ends well, eh?”

  He beamed at us from underneath his battered hat. “And now, if there’s nothing else with which I can help you, gentlemen, you will have to excuse me. This fog does nothing for the vocal cords, and my voice is my instrument, when all’s said and done.” I had just enough time to obtain a brief description of the foul-mouthed passenger before he offered his hand and his business card, and with a hearty “Good day!” was swallowed up by the crowds, which even yet ebbed and flowed through the station.

  I offered the same farewell to Tyler and, content in a day’s work well done, made my way to the street outside, where I hailed a hansom back to Baker Street.

  * * *

  “Getting down to the train track on foot proved to be more difficult than I expected,” Holmes began. We were sitting once more in our rooms in Baker Street, with the fire roaring and the fog and steady evening rain safely outside.

  Holmes had returned some two hours earlier, still in his working man’s clothes but covered in mud and dirt. He had immediately disappeared into his bathroom and remained there for some time, singing a soft aria to himself which I could hear through the door. When he returned to his chair by the fire he was once again Mr Sherlock Holmes. As he stuffed his pipe with his favourite rough shag tobacco, I regaled him with the tale of my meeting with Bill Fraser, before he in his turn described his activities that afternoon.

  “The bank is fairly steep, and the late rain has caused it to become slick and dangerous underfoot. It was all I could do to slide down to the gravel path, and even so I admit to a slight stumble or two. I was glad not to be in finer dress, Watson, I can tell you. To discover then that there was no easy access to the tunnel from the station was a crushing blow, and one which might have stumped me altogether had it not been for the lucky happenstance of our old friend, Archibald Aberdeen, seeing what I was up to and coming to my aid.

  “You must understand, Watson, that along each side of the tunnel runs a walkway for railway staff. After examining the carriage, it was my intention to take a stroll along one of these walkways and thereby effect a meeting with the workmen who have been clearing the wilderness at the side of the tracks for the past two weeks. Unfortunately, this particular station has locked gates barring just such access—to prevent the poor from sleeping under the bridge, I believe—and the entire walkway is enclosed in iron bars, creating a form of cage which would have left me standing foolishly in the drizzle, had not Mr Aberdeen fortuitously appeared at my shoulder.”

  At this point, Holmes leaned forward and pointed at me with the stem of his pipe. “We have misjudged that man, Watson, misjudged and maligned him. For one thing, it seems that Mr Archibald recognised me from the off, but chose not to speak, in fear of jeopardising our on-going investigation. Secondly, and more importantly, he had approached me at the tunnel mouth in order to explain the circumstances of his problems in Afghanistan.”

  From his uniform pocket, Holmes said, the porter had pulled a small etching of a native lady, dressed in the full ceremonial regalia of her people. This, he said, was the girl of whose murder he had been accused. She was engaged to be married to a local man, and he of course was a soldier in Her Majesty’s Army; more even than Romeo and Juliet, theirs was a love which was doomed from its very beginning, and their every meeting a danger to them both.

  And yet meet they did, Holmes continued, for over a year, stealing an hour together when they could, always a single misstep from discovery. Twice, Aberdeen claimed, he had had asked the girl to marry him and return to England as his wife, but each time she had refused, though she must have known that their secret liaison could not last forever. Sure enough, one day Aberdeen had gone to the abandoned temple which they used as a rendezvous and had discovered the girl’s fiancé standing over her unmoving body, the rope he had used to strangle her still in his hands. Aberdeen had broken down at this point in his tale and Holmes, never a man comfortable with strong emotion, quickly finished recounting the story to me, eager to be done with it. In short, Aberdeen managed to overpower the man and revenge himself for the girl’s death — surely a hollow comfort. Shortly after, he was discovered insensate on the ground by a passing patrol and taken into custody. Luckily, the army had believed his story, especially when it emerged that the native he killed had boasted of his intention to slay the woman who had dishonoured him.

  “Whoever our killer is,” Holmes concluded, “I am certain that it is not Mr Aberdeen.”

  Returning to his narrative, my friend described how Aberdeen unlocked the gate blocking the tunnel and bid Holmes to precede him into the gloom before them.

  “As he and I walked along the narrow path,” Holmes continued, “we had some difficulty keeping to a steady pace, so dim was the tunnel and uneven the ground underfoot. In fact, I almost missed something of vital importance because of it. At one point, I felt my foot slip on what I fancied was a damp rock or discarded rag and I stumbled and fell against the tunnel wall.
Had Aberdeen not taken the time to check that I was unhurt, I might never have bothered to examine the object which had so nearly caused me to come to grief.”

  In his hand he held a crumpled lady’s glove, dirty and soiled but recognisably the double of that Lestrade had described. One of the three pearls on the back of the glove was held in place by but a single thread and the stitching had come away a little at the junction of the thumb and the palm, but it was definitely Emily Williams’ missing garment. I glanced at my friend’s face as he held it out to me, but if this was a clue which shed decisive light on the case, it was impossible to tell. His brow was furrowed and his lips thinned in what I would have called barely repressed anger, had it been any other man.

  “So it was murder,” I said. Clearly no woman in her right mind would board a train and then almost at once remove and discard a single glove, never mind doing so immediately before suffering a fatal heart incident. I said as much to Holmes and, given an opportunity to demonstrate his intellectual powers, he shook his foul mood a little, though I could see from his manner that he remained uncommonly angered by something.

  “Murder it was, Watson,” he agreed, “and this glove tells us something important about the murderer as well as confirming the act itself. Do you remember what Aberdeen told us about finding the body?”

  I nodded. “That the lady was sitting very properly in her seat, with her bag in her lap and her hands folded before her.”

  “And that the door and window were closed, Watson. Miss Williams is hardly likely to have opened the window, discarded her glove, and then closed it again. More likely, I would say, that she was at the open window when something came through it and knocked the glove from her hand—and whoever or whatever that something was, it closed the window afterwards.”