Obediently I took the paper Holmes handed me. “Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water.”
““Now, “Jack” can mean a man’s name, or be used as a nick-name for “John”, or it can be used as a generic word referring to any man, as in “jack-of-all-trades”. “Jill” is often used the same way, either to refer to a woman named Jill, or Jillian or Jewel, or meaning any woman or girl.
“On the face of it, the mention of obtaining water at the top of a hill is ridiculous. Water, unless it comes down from melting glaciers or high sources, is usually found at lower levels, like rivers or lakes or other geological depressions. In the poem, there is not a direct mention of a well. But there is no mention of a waterfall, either. The poem is usually accepted as referring to a well. No one would expect to drill a well on the top of a hill. Why dig through yards of dirt and rock when a water supply could be found at the bottom with only a little effort?
“The exceptions are natural springs. They can appear anywhere. Now the area we are concerned with is London, because “London” was written in the address. I do not believe that restricts us only to the City of London. The City, only one mile square, doesn’t have enough scope in regard to hills. It must include to the entire sprawling capital. There are nine elevations in the Greater London area that have the word “hill” in their names. Each has its own unique qualities, but only one is known for its supply of natural springs. There was even talk, a few years ago, of building a spa on the site, to take advantage of the healthful waters.”
“Shooter’s Hill!”
“Exactly, my friend. It was famous as a medieval archers’ practice ground and later, as noted in Samuel Pepys’ diary, as a place of gibbets and hanged criminals. We are going to it now. We’ll get a cab at Blackheath station, and proceed from there to Shooter’s Hill.
“Read the next line, Watson.”
“Jack fell down and broke his crown and Jill will tumble down after.”
“The phrase “fell down” could mean just that, a collapse to the ground, or a fall from a height. It could also mean the failure of someone to deliver a desired result to his confederates. For example, if the leader of a criminal gang refused to share out the illegal goods in an equitable manner, that might be seen by the other members as a fall from a trusted position. The words “broke his crown” could refer to either the deposing of the chief after such perfidy or a literal attack resulting in a head wound. In fact, it could mean both actions. I think we can assume that something very bad happened to Jack.
“The last few words are the ones changed from the original poem. Originally it read “and Jill came tumbling after.” That was written in the past tense. But “and Jill will come tumbling after “is written in the future tense. In other words, it speaks of an incident that has not yet happened. Jill may be a witness to the bad thing that happened to Jack, since they are mentioned together, and now she could be in danger from the same fell confederates. They have not yet done anything to quiet her, but plans may be being drawn up. Our goals tonight are to secure Jill from any threat and to determine the other details of Jack’s fate.”
“Who could have sent such a warning?”
“For that answer there is a lack of data. It could be that someone knows of Jack’s downfall and doesn’t want Jill to be another victim.”
I thought about Holmes’ words as the train rumbled eastward. In spite of my faith in the great powers of my friend, I felt a spasm of doubt.
“Holmes, I fear that this tale you have spun is merely a tissue of suppositions. After all, no matter how clever it is, you have built up this tale over a few words scribbled on a dirty sheet of paper. Perhaps the scrap’s delivery at our door was just a coincidence.”
Sherlock Holmes folded up the piece of brown paper and tucked it into his pocket.
“Of course it is all supposition, my dear Watson! Every theory is supposition until it is proved conclusively. So far we have nothing for a court of law. But I assure you, I do not receive random mail. Also, there is this telegram.”
Holmes pulled out the yellow form he had held in his hand at the window in Baker Street. “After I had spent half the day figuring out the best meaning of the code, I spent some time mulling over possible solutions. I reached back into my files and old scrapbooks for accounts of unsolved thefts and robberies. An unresolved property distribution between gang members is much more likely as a bone of contention than any other crime. There was one case in France that seemed most probable. I sent a telegram to Lestrade at Scotland Yard and asked just one question: “Where are the present whereabouts of Jacques de Vitt?” I got an answer back within an hour. I sent for you, changed out of my dressing grown and aired out the room. It had become quite smoky from my contemplations and I am sure Mrs. Hudson will not be pleased.”
“Who is Jacques de Vitt?”
“He was a crafty old lag who was suspected of being the mastermind behind half-a-dozen major jewel thefts, the latest one being the disappearance of the Zenana Diamond from the Musee L’Perse in Paris four weeks ago. The Zenana Diamond is a square marquis-cut stone of the first water about the size of a robin’s egg. It is mounted as a pendant in white gold. It has an interesting history. It was a bribe from the Pasha of Kryteronbarr, a province in Persia, to Napoleon I, made in an effort to avoid the Little Corporal’s planned invasion of that country. During the burglary a month ago a guard was killed, few clues were found and the Paris police were stumped. The crime had all the marks of de Vitt, but he was supposedly incarcerated in a prison in Tunis at the time.
“Only last week did the government at Tunis confirm that four months ago de Vitt had made a great escape, climbing over his prison’s high walls in the dark of a new moon and making his way over the desert to Alexandria. From Egypt he travelled to Marseilles and then his trail disappeared. There had been new reports, however, and so our friend Lestrade was able to send this message in answer to my query earlier today.”
Holmes handed me the yellow telegram form. I read it by the light of the electric lamp over our heads. “Jacques de Vitt was last seen two nights ago in company of Jeanette Jacasser, diva of L’Opera Pendule, Greenwich. Woman has not yet been questioned. Mutilated body tentatively identified as De Vitt found on grounds of Brook River Hospital construction Shooter’s Hill just this morning. G. Lestrade.”
“We are on our way to the scene of the murder?”
“Yes. In a few minutes we will arrive at Blackheath Station. Please arrange for another cab.”
It was simple to hail a hansom in Blackheath and travel to Shooter’s Hill. The site was one of the highest elevations in the Thames valley, and stood in a peaceful, undeveloped area. Holmes peered eagerly out at the darkness as our cab slowed and stopped.
“We are coming up on the half-finished construction site that will soon become Brook Fever Hospital, a sanctuary for communicable disease cases. Surely you have heard of it, Doctor. It has replaced the proposed spa development designed to take advantage of the plentiful water supply. A most notable feature of this medical improvement is the new Water Tower, built of brick and capable of holding 20,000 gallons of water pumped up from the surrounding springs.”
“This is where the body was found? But the police have removed it, surely! What clues can remain?”
“It is always useful to have in one’s mind the layout of an important scene involving a crime before one meets with the principals involved. You may stay here. I shall not be long.” Sherlock Holmes brought out his bundle, unwrapped a dark lantern, lit it, and climbed out. The moon, a half-slice of soft grey light hanging over the trees and buildings that stood to our east, did little to dispel the night’s sable mantle. I watched the bobbing shaft of light piercing the darkness as the detective moved toward a low wall of fresh dirt and several piles of construction materials. The spot of light fitfully disclosed stacks of bricks, piles of cut
lumber, and a partially-built foundation wall. Then it vanished behind an obstruction and I was left to stare into the blackness. I checked my revolver. It was fully loaded. I put it back in my pocket.
It was several minutes later when the light re-appeared and I heard Holmes’ footsteps approaching the cab. He spoke a few words to the driver, then re-entered and blew out the lamp. The carriage started up again and soon the sound of the horses’ hooves told me we were back on a main road.
“What did you see, Holmes?”
“I saw what I expected to see, Watson. Now we proceed to the fourth part of this case; the endangered diva of l’Opera Pendule of Greenwich. We should just be in time for the second act.”
L’Opera Pendule turned out to be a shabby converted music hall on a side street in the city famous for its Royal Observatory. The posters in the cracked display cases by the front doors advertised “Mme. Jeanette Jacasser, the French Phenomenon, in the melodrama ‘Lady Grassmere’s Secret.’” Inside we bought our tickets from a fat little matron behind a grilled counter and then crossed the cramped lobby to take seats in the stalls. The hall’s interior was small, seating perhaps two hundred, and the edge of the stage was only a few rows in front of us. Perhaps a third of the stalls were occupied, and some of the patrons appeared to be asleep. There was no balcony and the walls sported faded red velveteen drapes hung between iron gaslight fixtures. The seats were covered in the same velveteen cloth, worn shiny in spots. The little stage was framed by a flaking proscenium carved with chubby cupids carrying huge roses. The stage curtain was a beige expanse of canvas painted with garish advertisements of local businesses and nationally-known patent medicines. The orchestra consisted of a bald man seated in front of a battered upright piano, an ancient white-haired violinist and a mandolin player who looked barely tall enough to dress himself.
The less said about the performance we saw of “Lady Grassmere’s Secret” the better. The sets were flimsy, the costumes were ludicrous and the plot was implausible. The only bright spot was Mme. Jacasser, who, while several years too old for the part of the ingénue, did a credible job of making a little sense of her part as the wronged heroine. She was of the type known as “a pocket Venus”, with a short curvy figure, a mass of golden hair piled on top of her head and a round face graced with a pair of pouty lips. We stuck it out until the end, however, and after the curtain dropped to sporadic applause, Holmes sent a note backstairs to the star, requesting an audience. He insisted that we remain in our seats a little time in order to allow the bulk of the other actors and stagehands to leave the building. Then we made our way backstage, using the door on the right-handed side leading off from the stalls.
As we walked past the orchestra pit, I glanced down at the musicians gathering their sheet music and packing up their instruments. Only one, the mandolin player, looked back. I was startled to see a mature man’s face on his short body, clad in a summer suit of light grey. Straight black hair was parted in the middle over a high forehead. Intelligent dark eyes looked back at me from a rather handsome face. He was a dwarf. He kept watching Holmes and me as we entered the corridor and closed the door behind us.
We stood in a hallway that ran off to our left. It was dark at our end, the lamp by our heads unlit, the mantle broken. The air smelled of greasepaint and wood rot. Dim flaring gaslights lit the rest of the space, which ended in a windowed door forty feet away. Reversed letters on the glass spelled out “Stage Door”, clearly visible by the light cast from a street lamp outside in the alley. Beyond the window I saw the silhouettes of several people, moving away to the right. The last of the employees must have just left. Three wooden doors lined the dun-painted walls, and another corridor was visible on the left, running behind the stage.
Halfway down the hallway a man dressed in workingman clothes stood before one of the doors. His hand was raised to the panels. Obviously he had just knocked to gain admittance. He hadn’t noticed us in our dark corner. A woman’s voice marked with a French accent said, “Who is it?”
“It’s Jemmy Phillips,” he answered in a rough voice.
“Did Jacques send you?”
“Yeah.”
“Entrez.” The door opened and the lamplight from within threw the man’s face into high relief. He was of medium height, strongly built, with short dark curly hair, a nose that clearly had been broken at least once, and a thick underlip over an unshaven chin. I caught only a glimpse of him before he entered the room, but his demeanour and appearance gave me a sinister feeling of menace. He walked in and the door was firmly shut.
Sherlock Holmes lifted his finger to his lips and gave me a warning glance. Silently we crept down the uncarpeted hall until we stood just outside the dressing room door. The building that housed L’Opera Pendule was old, and everything said within Mme. Jacasser’s retreat was easily heard from the corridor.
“Where is Jacques? Did he send you?”
“Yeah, he wants me to pick up that package he gave you.”
“He gave me no package.”
“Listen, Jeanette, I know he gave you something, and I want it right now.”
“I don’t know what you talk of. Stop! Leave that alone!” There was a strange metallic slithery sound and then a thump, as if wood had struck wood.
“Where is it? It must be in with this lot. Pick it out!”
“You are crazy! Go! Get out of here!”
“Tell me where it is or I’ll break your arm like I broke Jacques’ neck!” The woman screamed and Holmes kicked down the door.
I followed the detective in to an amazing scene. Mme. Jeanette Jacasser’s dressing room was sizable. The walls were hung with numerous costumes made of thin satin and lace on hooks next to pegs that held feather-trimmed, gauze-covered hats. A tri-fold screen stood in a corner on the right with a couch pushed against the wall just beyond it. A plethora of pillows and throw rugs covered the couch. A window facing the street was opposite the door and to its left was a dressing table and chair, with a round mirror hung over it. The dressing table surface was covered with cosmetic pots, brushes, soiled cotton balls and bottles of lotion. Two gas wall lamps flanked the mirror, which was surrounded with good-luck charms and little mascots tacked to the figured wallpaper. A small wash stand holding a painted tin pitcher and basin was placed in the corner next to the dressing table. In the middle of the room, centred under a gas chandelier, on a worn piece of carpeting, was a round table covered with a square of brocade. Its surface was covered in a dazzling heap of jewels, including ropes of pearls, diamond rings, glittering necklaces of emeralds and rubies, a sparkling stomacher, numerous bracelets and brooches, and at least one gem-laden tiara. Next to the pile was an overturned wooden box, elaborately carved with some of the designs on its surface picked out in silver. Jemmy Phillips stood with his back to us. He was holding Mme. Jacasser’s arm behind her back, bending her forwards over the table’s edge, with the fingers of his other hand gripping her golden hair.
Sherlock Holmes raised his walking stick and brought it down forcefully on Phillips’ shoulder. The man gave a cry and released the woman. She slid to the floor and lay there, motionless. Phillips staggered backward as I trained my revolver on him. He snarled at us both as he clutching his injured shoulder, and only remained upright by propping himself against the wash stand, nearly tipping over the painted tin pitcher that stood there.
“Who the hell are you?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”
“Sherlock Holmes!”
“It is gratifying that you recognize me. I shall hold you here for the authorities for the murder of Jacques de Vitt!”
Holmes bought out a set of handcuffs and advanced on the ruffian. He locked one steel cuff on Phillips’ wrist and reached for the other. Suddenly Phillips twisted and reached for the heavy box. He flung it at Holmes’ head as my friend raised his hands in self-defence. I shouted a warning
and moved to the right, seeking a clear field. Before I could aim the revolver, Phillips turned and dove for the window. He crashed through the glass and disappeared into the night. Holmes and I ran up to the shattered pane, but except for glass shards littering the ground outside, there was no sign of the confessed murderer.
My friend raised a silver whistle to his lips and blew several loud, sharp blasts. We heard hurrying footsteps and a policeman appeared out of the darkness. His freckled, ruddy face with its round cheeks and blue eyes, moved from me to Holmes. “Here now, what is all this disturbance? Why, is that Mr. Sherlock Holmes? Do you remember me, sir?”
“Yes, you are Constable Dwoff! Watson, this is the man who found the half-eaten apple that broke open the New Forest Stalking case. I marked you then, Dwoff, as a man to watch. Listen. Jemmy Phillips just confessed to the murder of Jacques de Vitt at Shooter’s Hill last night. He attacked Mme. Jacasser and ran off with my handcuff on his wrist. He should be headed for the docks. The Mother Dobbs and the Patched Pate sail on the morning tide and he’s sure to be on one or the other. Notify Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard and get the other men to cover the waterfront. You’ll get your Sergeant’s stripes for this, Dwoff, if you are quick.”
The policeman ran down the street and we turned back from the window. I went to Mme. Jacasser. She was still insensible. I pocketed my weapon and lifted her from the carpet. She had removed her costume worn in the play and now was wrapped in a thin flowered kimono. It was just the work of a moment to get her to the couch. I swiftly examined her for injuries. She had suffered no serious harm but continued in a deep faint. As I placed a cushion behind her head, Holmes scrabbled at the pile of brilliants, using his magnifying glass to swiftly study each item and tossing it aside only to return to the heap to search again. He even picked up the jewel box and scrutinized it carefully. After a few minutes, he raised his head and made a gesture of disgust.
Sherlock Holmes and the Folk Tale Mysteries - Volume 2 Page 20
